It sometimes happens on a Saturday that I post a poem for the weekend. This morning I have a little effort of my own that I thought I might share with you.
I dreamed that Harold Pinter had escaped
From some dark place where grim-faced readers coped
With poetry that came straight from the groin.
Yet also, there, were copies of the Graun
Within whose pages Shameless Seumas starred
And poems of said Harold had been stored.
Then I looked round and saw those mad fixed eyes.
The poet stood before me in a blaze.
I feared (like fearing falling down a hill)
That soon it would be more 'George Bush/Sieg Heil!'