I must confess: I hate all mess Apart from daily mess in kitchens. I''m much too wary To be wearing a certain neckline. Every line Will grow and ripen Like grapes are darkening on a vine. If they are not made into wine And pushed and squeezed by people''s feet They will remain a little fleet Of tidy balls. Each drop of juice Locked into walls Of shiny skin. Its never running down your chin These grapes may come be Grapes of wrath. Hard shiny bullets, aftermath Of what we see as strange perfection. Elaborate and highly pitched inflection of ''do not force me be like you'', ''I do not like jumping the queue''. But stand in queue or live in Kew Is it much better?