Oh bloody hell, I must be really dumb
I’ve been redrafting poetry all day long
And evening too; now ten o’clock has come
And I forgot my sonnet! For so long
I’ve written one each day; yes, for so long
And I’ll continue, till the day I croak
So how did I forget? My brain belongs
To the dustbin. My memory’s a joke.
As a reward for all my literary work
(Alcohol’s not permitted), think I’ll bomb
Down Burnage Lane, home of the chip. Among
Four chip shops, I’ll spend without going broke
Then I’ll drive back here, pour gravy upon
My feast, and then I’ll eat it loud and long!
Sun 13 Sept
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