A poem by Paul Wylde (not Oscar)

the trees i've seen blur to evergreen,
but the sheen of a fallen penny
excites pulse racing like a jumping bean.
i digress. what a mess this is,
still, neither one nor the other
can release us from the bus.
we're riding with the windowlickers now.
there you go A to B through the A to Z
caught in the web of metre and yard
there's the stick and the ale of the world's joy.