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.


And less of the cheek!

There follows the poem itself, which is entitled

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.)

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!


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


Sid said...

I thought that was brilliant.

Vivienne said...

Merry Christmas to one and all,

Lots of love,
Vivienne xxx