When dancing, lost in techno trance, arms flailing gawky bez; then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly dawns: you're jazzing to the beeptone of a life-support machine that marks the steady fading of your day-old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens, lead to blue flash road mash, stretchers covered heads, and slippy red macadam, and find you creeping neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangled bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer drawered. Then welcome, ooh blue chemotherapy wig, welcome in Jam
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