If only I could hire an unemployed giant
for little money, to smash everything
and take it away (big chunks, quickly clean)

I lift buckets down
the hall of the old house
all rooms are as filthy

as the poo pit, to vomit, while
there is hardly anything in them
Out of poverty

the man sold what he could sell, tell
the neighbours disapprovingly
they have no compassion

The rest, I throw in the garden
and what's left after the fire
is debris for the extension:

shards and a pocket saint
worn like him, well
you never know what is true