Late for theYeats festival hatching,
A badger bites my ass, red welts matching
Lipstick stitches of Nurse Ratchett’s uncle.
On a tattered wicker hamper, clothes runkle.
“Thanks for attending”, says the emcee (ho hum),
Red light (stopping me from taking the podium)
On my rump, throbbing like a short-circuiting goad.
Herbert Persiflage reads a commemorative ode.
“Yeats, you Dead White Man, though I’m jealous
Of your surpassing verse, the fellas
Around my barn paper the abbatoir
With their own odes, and pages of film noir,
Fiddling with the riddle of why idiots
Choose to write verse with the life of biddies’ tits
When furrow and fence and fleece entice
With debaucheries under spider lice.
You created a new Byzantium;
The ‘poet’ pens love notes on his bum.
Glad to see the demented one here
In tangled toiletries of beer.”
I scratched my ass with a floor-scooped pretzel
Then tipped the usher a stolen quetzal.
Take me home and shovel me in
And wipe the drool from my spotted chin.