“Have you anything to declare?” they always ask, And while, in all good conscience, we say, “No …”, At times we’re first to take ourselves to task And, being officially cleared, may straightway go To that other customs desk that’s set within, Where officers, accustomed to the lies Expediency urges on us, will begin To go through all our luggage while each tries To explain it all away: the forbidden fruit, The ornamental weapons never meant For violent use, of course, and the medication That could just be “prohibited” … How readily bent Is often the offence to the occasion!…