The horrowshow Milkbar
also known now as the best mesto
for my droogs and me,
where, “What’s it going to be then, eh”
is the question repeated
by malchicks and devotchkas …
any random nochy with a thirst
for twenty-to-one, or any other
way to filly out the bezoomny
we feel trapped in the old mozg.
Bog himself knows the starry lewdies
try everything they can to escape
their grazzy cheepooka. They
have different ways of lying
about the jeezny, my brother.
But if you viddy their glazzies
after a few rounds of their
favorite poisons, behind their guffs
and ha ha ha creeches
you’ll hear from their poogly rot
what sounds like a hound and horny
excuse for why they wake up every
morning to ookadeet their domy and drat
for the measly hem-korm in their pockets …
why they rabbit until their plots
fall apart and are left with nothing
but to itty or take in
the last unending spatchka.
It’s why we’re showing mercy, my brother,
and a beautiful thing, kleb and krovvy,
when we take these broken vecks
out back to bend ’em at their altar
in the darkness of the alley
and smash them in the litso —
make a mark in the rassoodock,
so it plays like a shoomny sneety,
like a scene we’d see at the sinny.
It’s the only way to prod a bratty.
* Inspired by a student who invited me to read and discuss A Clockwork Orange with him.