I wish I was a famous poet.
I’m jealous of their knowledge and skill.
I’d call to A.E. Housman.
“Your team is ploughing still!”
I’d pen an ode to Wordsworth
From a daffodil.
My study is an Eliot wasteland
Of crumpled paper and sighs of despair.
Why can’t I write like Shakespeare?
In tragic monologues on thick, scented air.
Mine always sound like a limerick
Or a daft ditty by Pam Ayre… s
Michael McBride
August 2018
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