A Conservator’s Son

There is a hidden off-switch
Within my restless mind,
Wound-up, pre-electronic,

And though I search and search
I stay here, quietly supplied.
From time to time I realise

My overwatching
Wingless guardian
Has such primacy!,

Looks after me, misguidedly,
Surging through my monkshood-blood,
My sub-generated supply’s backed-up.

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