Monday, 24 August 2015


Wordsworth killed our mojo
when he started
that there friggin thing
with the daffodowndilly
(silly fucking Willie)

We poets we was
proper terrors, we was!
we was word-warriors!

What with the drinkin
and the whorin
we had priests
abhorin us and
political fellas
burning us and
our bundles and
we burned good
what with all
that cheap liquor...

But it was understood:
we had us a place
in every inn,
and some of them
houses as specialises
in outs and then ins,
or both - for them
as likes particular sins.

I blames Wordsworth
and Milton and Keats.
now Byron, he was OK,
he was as crooked and
drunken a word-whore
as could be named.

He may have been lame
but he understood
the whole aim of them
poetic activity
was to get laid,
and man did he!
he got it in spades!

I blames Wordsworth
i do, and i won't repine
the man was a pimple
oozing sentimental shite
waxin lyrical about them
saintly country dead
or some such trite.

I coulda told him
Mistress Stave
as ordered that
rhyme for that grave
was fiddling old Fred
long afore her late
lamented husband
was dead...

Waits a bit that weren't
Wordsworth but that
snotty, acned Chatterton
as killed hisself and started
the fashion for dramatic
teenage anguish in poems
as shoulda been blessings
on we mature god-fearin folks...

it weren't Tom Chatterton
it were that pussy Thomas Gray!
i always suspected
that bastard was gay
what with admirin
sturdy shepherds
and hiddin and pokin
at sheep in sheds
insteada bouncin
succulent maids
on feather beds...

Well, don't matter no-how
cause they is all dead,
just as you and me
and Fred here, dead
and buried in the loam.

So pour us another one
Rabbie, and give us
a proper bit of a poem...


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