The Next Laureate

Oh, will it be Larkin, as flat as a parkin?

Or will it be gaudy MacBeth?

Or even Ted Hughes with his Animal Blues, or old What's-it to bore us to death?

It might well be Bunting (Norse grumbling and grunting),

it could (well, it could) be Thom Gunn.

All the bards west of Horsley still fancy Charles Causley, and Amis would surely be fun?

Supposing that Enright could hold his bold pen right,

suppressing his world-weary views? Or what about Spender, a mixer and blender

with all who enthuse with the Muse?

And surely Roy Fuller, less mad than a mullah,

would bring to the office some poise?

Or Adcock — or Beer — who are there without peer

and are girls, though their names sound like boys'.

Don't neglect Laurence Cotterell or even R. Bottrall —

it's a race which outsiders can win. Peter Levi, Frank Prince — the Muse has a blue rinse and for her being old is no sin!

It won't be Craig Raine yet

(we shan't quite have that strain yet)

or the young ones who think they're so great — and sure, to be brief, that's a thumping relief!

Could be worse. Will be bad. We must wait.

Gavin Ewart