The best thing since sliced bacon,
You, I thought, and not one to compete
With saint or poet, not one to object
To fags or alcohol.
I took you down with me to Ali’s bar
To meet the Desert Fathers, all saints, bless them!
(O Ali, take away these yellow beers.
They’re much too yellow, Have you nothing browner?)
Yes, pigs can not be saints
Or poets. That would be,
Oxymoronic, an absurdity,
Like jolly Yorkshiremen or telamons,
Or telamones, playing Rugby League,
Though if they could
They’d have the best front row for miles around.
(A bacon-sandwich would be just the thing
And, Ali, dont forget the HP sauce.)
At least you won’t be writing any poems
About my telamons or anything.
That’s just as well.
One poet in a household is enough.