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money,
    Otherwise how would you buy a house, for example?’
    ‘Mortgages,’ said Berrigan, ‘are a con,
    It’s just another form of robbery.
    This was one thing old Ez got right,
    Even if he got it wrong about the Jews
    And the fascists – read canto XLV
    Where he puts it plainly:
    “with usura, sin against nature,
    is thy bread ever more of stale rags
    is thy bread dry as paper,
    with no mountain wheat, no strong flour
    with usura the line grows thick
    with usura is no clear demarcation
    and no man can find site for his dwelling.
    Stone cutter is kept from his stone
    weaver is kept from his loom…”
    Now, speaking of stone, it’s about time
    We picked ourselves up again, and had
    A closer look at this landfall,
    We need to think about making our way down.’

CANTO XII
    The point we came to, to make our
    Descent, not far from Reception,
                       was steep and treacherous.
    As, at Aberfan, when
             the mountainous slag heap
    Collapsed
                       burying the town,
    Slurry, mud and concrete
                            littered our track,
    And guarding the way was that monstrous
    Bigot, John Bull, in his
                                    top hat and braces,
    A bunch of skinheads
                          with Nazi tats
                       at his side.
    When he saw us approaching
    He tucked his thumbs behind his braces,
               whispering something to his friends.
    Berrigan, my guide, lit the spliff,
            and as we drew near,
                       he held it out to the skins.
    ‘Fancy a smoke, boys?’ he asked,
    And at once one of their number
                    reached out a hand to snatch it.
    They sat down amongst the rocks to smoke,
    As John Bull stood there, fuming with rage.
    ‘Quick,’ my shrewd guide called out, ‘let’s go,
    Before things turn nasty.’ And so we went down,
                 over the scree
                          which I felt shift and tilt

    Beneath my feet
                        with the human weight
                                        it was not used to.
    I was in deep thought when Berrigan began:
    ‘Are you wondering what made the podium
              collapse, making this heap of rubble,
    Down which we clamber? Last time
               I was here, as visiting professor,
                                               it still stood firm.
    Yet, if I remember well, that was just before
    The helicopter, carrying scouts from Vanderbilt, came,
                        to cream off any talent they could find,
    Then this abyss of stench began to quake,
    From top to bottom, that was the moment the
    Concrete began to split – here, and in other places.
    But now, look out across the marshes,
    Towards B&Q, coming closer you will see
                          the river of blood that boils the souls
    Of those who injured others through violence.’
           I saw a river – wide, bent like the pin of
                a grenade – embracing the bleak flatlands,
    Across which came an
          army of cleaners, trotting in single file,
                              armed with mops and buckets.
    Catching sight of us, they stopped short
    And three of them approached: ‘You there,
    On your way to the river like a couple of rats,
    What torture are you looking for? Speak,
    Or I’ll give you a taste of my mop.’
                             And then Berrigan called back:
    ‘We’ll give our answer to Sharon, when we’re
    At her side; as for you, I see you’re
                                              surly as ever!’

    He nudged