one day
in the past
oblivious
to my childhood
I look up
and straight down
a lens
as long lost
as the thought
behind eyes
of grained monochrome
perhaps that
memory
will resurface
to complete
the tale
the image
half told
one day
in the future
these glasses do not favour me
you couldn’t say they’re cool
they’re too big for my little head
and make me look a tool
but if I didn’t wear them
I couldn’t read or write
so I guess that I’m stuck with them
though I look a proper sight
even with them on my face
I bump my head a lot
so I really must be careful
it’s the only head I’ve got
I’ll live with the fact they’re rather sad
and just a fashion folly
they don’t make me look like Richard Gere
just a grey haired Buddy Holly
real poets dress in ruffled shirts
with frock coats velvet long
I write in my underpants
which seems a little wrong.
real poets they have tragedy
in which each line is wrought
I think I’m quite a happy chap
with nae a darkened thought.
real poets all have fancy names
to hang their words upon
or multiple initials
whilst I have just the one.
real poets puff on opium
to let their minds fly free
or seek fairies in the absinthe
I like a cup of tea.
real poets suffer greatly
and have consumption too
death always hangs around them,
hmm, well I did just have the flu.
real poets finish poems
unless they die before
my words tend to fizzle out
when I haven’t any more
It’s a bloody sin
the price of gin
especially in these days
when a good stiff drink
can stop you think-ing
how we got this way
