The wardrobe is stained spaghetti bolognaise

and his brain has shrunk to the size of mush.

There's no rhythm in the knuckles

and his pocket's bulging up

with bobbles, broken pencils,

tissues full of sticky stuff.

The wheels go round the mulberry bush

(for the saint, the clown and poet);

but it's too much of a squash

and bits of him fall off

even when confined to brackets:

this is all that Renaissance Man can manage.