Slouched there in the Aston Martin
On its abattoir of upholstery
He escapes
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.
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