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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