The Weekly Muse
A blue moon due tomorrow night
When January shuffles out
And February lumbers in,
Ill-tempered as a case of gout,
His chamberpot of stale rain
Brimful of lukewarm winter days,
A half-day closing firebug sun
To set the sulking clouds ablaze.
The disappearing apple.
There's a subject for a poet.
The dreaming English orchards
Were the places where they'd grow it -
The russet and the Blenheim
Or the rough old d'Arcy Spice -
But the supermarket buyers
Think they wouldn't look as "nice"
As those waxy plastic objects
Which you see them putting out,
And as all their adverts tell you:
Choice - it's what it's all about.
More sex pervading everything...
The media's full of sex
And prurient fascination
With concave and convex.
The latest thing to crop up
On an over-stuffed agenda
Is the Old Vic's new production
On the theme of the pudenda.
This yonic veneration,
Though it isn't quite a play,
Asks the thought-provoking question:
"If it talked, what would it say?"
Vaginal conversation?
Not the sort of thing I'd try,
But even if it happened
How the hell would I reply?
A perfume firm, American,
Has launched a certain winner.
I gave some to my girlfriend
Last evening over dinner:
The subtle scent of "Essex"
Is sweetly charismatic,
The high note's Harwich Harbour,
The undertone's emphatic -
A Billericay boot fair,
A whiff of car-interior,
A hint of Thorpe-le-Soken,
And something far superior -
An Elmstead Market feed-shed?
A dog on Clacton sands?
My hostess smelled of lager.
I was putty in her hands.
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