He’ll write a hundred pages in a day

And work from dawn to dusk without a stop;

Especially when deadlines start to loom,

The level of his output will not drop.

Maintaining his plush lifestyle will depend

On such unsparing episodes of work;

He tears a plot from deep inside his mind

And in a month is signing with a smirk.

Then it is time to rest and to enjoy

The ...

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‘Picasso’s not all he’s cracked up to be.’

He’d had a few by then, but understood

The dangers of hype and adulation

Of the spineless, unconditional kind.

We were on the last train from Fenchurch Street;

Among the massed drunks now quiet or depressed,

The air was thick with smoke and rancid ale.

At first, when he leant over to my side,

I groaned, half-expecting some hard-luc...

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