Poetry for you

AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS

As his particular contribution to the 'I'm Back- ing Britain' Movement the Poet Laureate, Mr C. D'A. 'Monk' Lewis. has been at his lathe at five-thiity each morning, one and a half hours earlier than usual, conscientiously working at his patient craft of turning scraps of otherwise worthless news into lovely poetry. Inevitably. with such a volume of production, some pieces do not immediately find a buyer: it is our privi- lege to print below a selection of his work originally intended for export, and genelously made available to us by the Laureate at vastly reduced prices.

On the departure of the Prime: Minister, the Rt Hon Harold Wilson, for Moscow :

Suppose Just for a moment That he did not come back.

That his high-soaring jet

Air-treading bull of aluminium

Cleaving the rarefied air of the stratosphere Blew up. --

Or that on landing safely in Moscow He was arrested and had all his.hairshaved off

Like Greville Wynne Or even, by some capricious twist of fate,

That he was bicycling in bitter-crisp sunshine

Through the Moscow Zoo And was eaten by an armadillo.

What a turn-up That would be for the books.

On the announcement of the news that Her Majesty the Queen is to make available pedigree stock from the Royal Farms to assist in re-

stocking those areas devastated by the foot and Louth epidemic : Come into the cowshed for a moment Sit down and watch (This was an unwise place To leave a pitchfork) Observe the dull-eyed stocky-muscled bull: Two liveried cowmen Are attempting to prop its forelegs on inverted buckets As it is rather elderly.

Note too the mournful diffidence With which the pink-uddered cow Allows herself to be guided Backwards across the cobbles Acquiescing.

The richly-broide red symbolism of the scene Will hardly have escaped you Heavy with royal potency The bull Bearing with pride the cipher Elizabeth Regina Branded into its rump Contemplates the impregnation of the common herd With doughtier mettle.

Privy to these rituals The attendant keeps silence Pokiiig it with a stick.

Perhaps Ferdinand Finds our continuing presence inhibiting Let us go out and look at the rhubarb Instead.

On the recent earthquake in Sicily : Did you feel depressed When you read in the newspaper About the recent Sicilian earthquake disaster?

Did you perhaps feel grief For the thousands of homeless?

You should be exultant, You who love England, That it was not Shepherd's Bush.

We may be up to the neck in it Economically speaking But at least no ghastly cracks Have appeared in the Strand And Buckingham Palace has not been reduced to a heap of rubble Yet.

On a morning when there was not much in the papers : Do you remember The night that Uncle Albert's trousers exploded?

Oh, how we laughed.

I even wrote a poem about it Handling the precious-pedantic words Making them skip to my rhythms And go bang Just as Uncle Albert's trousers had done In the manner fashionable among toffee-nosed Middle-brow aesthetes in the 'thirties. Now, sitting in the summerhouse at half past five in the morning Reading through the first editions of the newspapers Trying to find something to write a poem about Anything to write a poem about It is a very different kettle of fish.

There was a time I thought that being the Laureate Might be quite fun Inspiring confidence with the weight of a glinting tradition In fact I find it extremely boring.

What do you think, Tom, Dick and Harry?

TOM: Why don't you get the type-setter To set it up as prose

You might get a job on Time and Tide Or even the Daily Express.

DICK: The economics of payment by the line Would seem to militate against it.

IRRRY : Have you ever considered, old friend, Feeling the martial blood pulse through

the sinews Sending them back the laurel crown And suggesting they stuff it?