Slouched there in the Aston Martin
On its abattoir of upholstery
To the storming of the undersea missile silo,
The satellite rescue, the hydrofoil
That hits the beach, becoming a car
With Q’s amazing state-of-the-art,
State-of-the-art, state-of-the-art ...
Suddenly he has this vision
Of a sperm in a boyhood sex-ed film
As a speargun-carrying, tadpole-flippered frogman
Whose vizor fills up with tears,
And of living forever in a dinner-jacket
Fussier and fussier about what to drink.
Always, ‘Shaken, not stirred.’
Chlorine-blue bikinis, roulette tables, water-skiing –
Show me that scene in Thunderball
Where James Bond changes a nappy.
Send Letters To:
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.