In cow parsley and nettle,
Summer swaggers through the woods,
A green man in good fettle.
The randy sun comes pushing past
The pregnant, metal thunderclouds
To wax the leaves and crack the mud,
Send hormones surging to the blood,
His horny hand on panting land
Before the flood...
I waited, bated breath, by phone
For call-to-court which never came,
But Andrew Motion got the gig
And things can never be the same.
The laurels will not be my crown,
My heart is broke, I rail and weep
Till laudanum stupor drags me down
Ten fathoms deep in jilted sleep...
Through Norfolk poppies, Sandringham,
The flatlands seen from Royal Train,
As, poised with quill to pen some paean,
I'm jerked back to the world again.
The morning jaunt in autumn fields
On horseback next to Princess Anne -
Those dreams return to nebulae
Too heady for the mortal man.
Now half the poets in the land
Must lick their wounds and curse his name.
Seventy quid and butt of sack?
Aw, come on lads, it's just a game.
"Tough Plans for Workshy Youngsters":
Those under twenty-five
Who can't be bothered fitting in
And only wish to skive,
Or selling double-glazing,
Refusing education loans.
I find it quite amazing
Our homeless teens and twenties
Display such bad behaviour
Despite their caring, sharing,
Blairing, Calvinistic saviour.
Let's take away their pittances
And show them destitution.
Three cheers for Nanny Government
And up the revolution!
A people-carrier cortege clogs
A lime-tree-lined suburban street,
The car door opens suddenly,
A cyclist and his death near-meet.
Then with that winsome, winning way
Which school-run drivers often show
She smiles at the fallen man
And as he mounts and turns to go,
"I'm sorreh," she calls after him,
"But parking here is such a pain."
"No, all my fault," the rider says,
"For trying to use the cycle lane."
My life as "trophy boyfriend"
Has largely been quite poor,
But threatened legal changes
Mean trouble is in store.
My mistress and her lawyers
Wait gleaming by the door...