Syrupy Circle spy’s.

i spy with my little eye a golden tidal line of syrupy 

tins of copper green leaving circles on the the table

the years of fresh jars of Piccadilly pigs stocked 

Deboned for broad walking shuffling tourists 

the Shuttles planned for the militarised skyrides 

Are decadently wistful pours of high back Bourbon 

seconding thoughts and backhand batons of Paper 

ethers are not for torching as the remains of daylight 

are evident as the queues.