Report from the Dâmboviţa

Here's a half-length poem in the style of last year's river reports - - - poems I wrote in pubs on rivers in Northern English cities. In lieu of proper travel reportage, some allusive nonsense:

Seventy-seven bats ago, since I left my home town,
I have sinned at his expense,
And forgotten to pay terraneous rents,
Way to be thrown down when the volcano come down.

Away down past the jetlagged sunrise,
Saying like a spiriduş with a gypsy fiddle,
I will unclothe you with an easy ancient riddle,
I will unclothe you like a routine morning exercise.

That's all they really want, an interview
Before the sweat & celebrity cologne,
Thrown down like a mouse from the sky is thrown,
Alone waiting for my Irish wish's curfew.