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by Cheryl Frances-Hoad From The Thought Machine (2016)

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English source: Kate Wakeling

I’m a spinning, winning, tripping, zipping, super-sonic ice queen:
see my moon zoom, clock my rocket, watch me splutter tricksy space-steam.

I’m the dust bomb, I’m the freeze sneeze, I’m the top galactic jockey
made (they think) of gas and ice and mystery bits of something rocky.

Oh I sting a sherbet orbit, running rings round star or planet;
should I shoot too near the sun, my tail hots up: ouch – OUCH – please fan it!

And I’m told I hold the answer to the galaxy’s top question:
that my middle’s made of history (no surprise I’ve indigestion)

but for now I sprint and skid and whisk and bolt and belt and bomb it;
I’m that hell-for leather, lunging, plunging, helter-skelter COMET.


Cheryl Frances-Hoad

Cheryl's music has been described as “like a declaration of faith in the eternal verities of composition” (The Times), with “a voice overflowing not only with ideas, but also with the discipline and artistry necessary to harness them” (The…

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