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I dedicate this poem to the man behind the mask

 

A working-class poet

 

I don’t consider myself a good poet

Because I make a word rhyme

How hard can it be

To rhyme one word in a line

The task is really no task at all

I mean how can you fail

How can you fall?

 

I am a working-class poet

If a poet at all

Using grandiose words

that plebeians can’t understand

what is the point

I’m just a working-class man

 

No high education

No university diplomas

Remembering I am just

a simple doomer gloomer

 

No cost a lot holidays

On Costa del Sol

No f’n sun on this island

no none at all

Rain soaking my cap

My feet soaking wet

I’m just a working-class poet

I know it

 

And yet

 

Perhaps there’s a place

Were rubbish poets can post

I just haven’t found it yet.

I’d make a good host

No sonnets to configure

No lines to count

Not even a high horse

For me to dismount

 

No Metre, enjambment, caesura to find

these are just things that to

a working-class poet is blind

ternary feet, the dactyl molossus

not forgetting the Tribrach

the amphibrach, amphimacer

and quaternary feet

more f’n words that sound oh! so neat

My Anglo Saxon attitude

Dying to kick in

Don’t get started… where to begin?

 

Syllabic verse the stanza terza rima

Quatrain, the rubai, rhyme royal

Not to mention the ottava rima

Spenserian stanza critics to spoil.

I’m just a working-class poet

I know nothing at all

about how to write poetry

Just gibberish that’s all.

 

 

Adopting and adapting

What little I know

The Ballard, heroic verse

Here he goes Oh! Noooo!

F’n working-class poet

Will he never shut up?

 

The ode: Sapphic (no I’m not pissed)

My spelling might be off, the odd letter I missed

Pindaric, Horatian, not to mention the lyric ode

I’m just a working-class poet

With nothing to write

That’s not a problem where’s my commode?

When I need some bog roll cos. the shops have sold out

I’ll just rip this shit up

Hurrah! You all shout.

 

Villanelle, sestina I’m falling asleep

I’m just a working-class poet

This shit is too deep

Pantoum is knocking

On my bed-chamber door

For ‘f-sake Po

Have you got any more?

 

Nope, I’m just a working-class poet

With nothing to say

Who reads any of this stuff at the end of the day?

 

Rondel, roundel, rondelet, roundelay

As my head hits the pillow

I’ve got nothing more to say

Except for triolet Kyrielle

And have a good day

Oh! just one thing

If I’m still keeping you up

Clerihew, Woo Hey!

I’m just a working-class poet

With f’all to say

 

I just wanted to have

A per-verse bit of fun

Playing with myself

What?

Yes! I know I will mum.

 

 

No haiku, senryu

No not f’you

For goodness sake Mum

Why on earth don’t you

Tanka, that’s thank you in some foreign speak

No, it’s not really but I need my sleep

Ghazal… Nope not you either, my winged angel gazelle

Luc, bat, (as in out of hell) tanaga

I’m just a working-class poet

Look can’t you tell

 

Nearing the end now

Almost the end

I can’t keep up this pretence

I’m going round the bend

I’m not a poet and never will be

I am just Po and Po is just me.

 

 

So, to conclude

and end this small piece

 

if you’re still reading

May sweet sleep surround us

Po has at long last surcease.

 

Po the working-class Po it

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