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I saw my first-ever goldfinch in the garden today.  Aren't they lovely?

I received a particularly interesting and entertaining birthday present this year and I’d like to share it with you.

It was from the official Poet Laureate of the Honourable Company of Truckshunters - J Arthur Smallpiece.  Along with a recipe for Spicy Lentil Soup (which I have not yet tried), he sent me a poem which, along with all his others, is of the very first water.

The preamble reads as follows…

As you know, the place is littered with sub-standard works of modern ‘art’ - pretentious junk called ‘installations’.  Not to be outdone, I am producing large amounts of sub-standard ‘literature’ which I refer to as ‘ejaculations’.  These take the form of a short prose introduction followed by a few lines of doggerel, with footnotes as required.

So pin back your ears for my most recent ejaculation.  I imagine it will be your favourite birthday treat.

Possibly.

And less of the cheek!

There follows the poem itself, which is entitled

THE LOVESONG OF J ARTHUR SMALLPIECE
In which the Bard responds both poetically and philosophically to one of Life’s irritating vicissitudes.

I mustn’t cry on the outside - it doesn’t become me, you see;
    Yet my girlfriend of several years’ standing has recently walked out on me.
I besought her not to forsake me - I’ve begged and pled all I can.
    But she tret me with total ignoral AND WENT OFF WITH SOME OTHER MAN!

(Pause for sympathy.)

We’d met in the bar of The Beehive.  She was strapping and minimally-dressed;
    She was the barmaid from heaven and I was unduly impressed.
Like her beer, she was fresh and full-bodied - and tasty and rather well-kept;
    Her service was fast and efficient; her use of the hand-pumps was deft.
Her demeanour was courteous and charming; her features were pretty and cute
    And her flesh was outstanding and tempting and luscious like over-ripe fruit.

(Pause for gasps of incredulity.)

My replacement is brawny and burley - a bit of a lad, it is said -
    With a nasty brass ring in his nostril and a great big shiny shaved head.
His ears are vajazzled with jewellery, there’s a scar down the side of his face
    And his body’s as hard as bell-metal, with tattoos all over the place.
(His dog is a pit-bull called Genghis - a savage unlovable brute
    That slavers and goes for the postman - and looks like his master, to boot!)

(Pause for sharp intake of breath.)

So, I mustn’t cry on the outside; though his muscles are bigger than mine
    I’ll console myself by assuming he’s a shallow and uncultured swine.
He is, most likely, a bully - not gentle and caring, like me.
    He’s like an ill-bred gorilla - I think that we all can agree -
Who’s uncouth, crass and quite charmless.  And he doesn’t write poetry, I’ll bet -
    Which is something that that little madam will come, I hope, to regret.

(Possibly.  And that’ll teach her.)

THE AFTERMATH
Because of the shock to my system and the pain that I now feel inside
    I’m thinking of giving up poesy - my muse, it has withered and died.
I’m feeling low and despondent - not carefree like I used to be -
    So if there’s no restitution, there’ll be no more fine verses from me.
The poet has added a footnote…

Don’t worry!!! I’m only joking.  I just make all this stuff up.  I’m still at it.  In fact, I’m writing a piece entitled The Disturbing Tale of Neville Hardacre and the Lady Vicar as you read this.  You must be looking forward to your next birthday already!
I am, J Arthur; I am!

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Post comments on this blog or email me:  truckshunters@googlemail.com