~~Brian
 
You’re a literary lion!
Yet you’re invariably sighing
as you prowl round the page
lines escape from the cage
and the herd run off trumpeting.

Or was that I heard a siren?
You’ve been out clubbing with Lord Byron,
I’m digging your deeds done abroad
with a pen and a sword,
at least that’s what I thought –
now I’m strangely discomfited.

There’s been a local revolution:
you’ve gone from Galahad to gruesome,
pampered, pomaded,  kind of Proustian
as you soak in the bath  with a toe in the tap,
your luxurious lap is warmed by the draught
of candles and lavender.

And I wonder
is this below the belt or under?
I wouldn’t wish to make a blunder
by employing a word like beneath
as it causes you grief
and infuses your soul with nausea.
But you don’t have a soul, does ya?