Poetry is a Load of Crap
“You smug old bastard! You who always boasted
Of your socialism, fancy you getting rich,
By swindling some retired school-master of his savings
Or was it some fat old bitch?
Me! Well, I have given up those metrical ravings,
All the old tropes on honeysuckle and honey,
Moonlight and magnolias under which they kissed.
Now I could give the best of them a run for their money.
But let’s go into the pub and get pissed.”`
So the squalid epiphany runs on
In quinquinados of tinkling verse.
The wry humor that’s humorless, the simpatico tone
And chumminess that’s obviously put on.
A clever person trying to be stupid, after a fashion.
But the mask often slips.
Is this some old roue’s bumbling confession?
Or a corset maker’s apocalypse?
The testament of some self-deprecating sap?
Who is almost saying- “poetry is a loaded of crap!”
This is not the real things.
