New poem on front, or rather an old one found and changed. I had forgotten I had written this, probably about three years ago. It is much edited now, and considerably shorter than its four original epistles. It remains, and probably will remain, unpublished. It's furious fun in a kind of Augustan version of Burns stanza, a form I have handled once or twice before. Just think of a very grumpy old man jumping up and down while laughing at the imagined sight of himself jumping up and down. Think of a Scotsman with a monocle. Think of a Hungarian in tweeds.
No, of course, it's not serious. Not entirely. See, I'm utterly chilled. Blood pressure? I laugh at blood pressure!
4 comments:
It's a riot of a poem!
Thank you, Rob.
Great poem. One point, was Harry Andrews at Rorkes Drift (i.e. the film Zulu)? Jack Hawkins, Nigel Greene and of course M. Caine and S. Baker, but not Andrews.
You're right, anon. It was Stanley Baker I was thinking of! I'll change the poem - shame because Harry Andrews sounded better with Rorke's Drift. The 'r's. Damn.
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