After a night of exquisite bliss  

She said, ‘ I'll do anything for you” 

So I sent her jogging down 

To Cafe Nero 

For coffee and a croissant  

And a Sunday with a supplement 

She returned twenty minutes later  

With a paper and defibrillator

 

And told me that after last night

I’ll need the latter. 

 

As I scanned the Aga ads 

Looking to buy brand new  

 

I saw his picture  

They called him a luminary 

Not just a poet, 

A prophetic visionary 

All I could think was how much 

I hate the bastard 

With his witty repartay  

And brand new anthology 

Of nuanced elegance  

That nobody will ever wade through 

Except students, critics,  

And his mum 

Who'll buy two dozen 

For family and friends 

And bore her pals at Age U.K. 

With how well her Gervaise is doing 

Showing the cutting 

And bragging,  

“We christened him Gary 

He changed it because 

Gervaise sounds more poetry like 

I always said he'll be famous one day” 

But he won't be famous long  

If I have my way  

His days are numbered  

I put a curse on his head  

Because I hate the bastard

And his Welsh Sorrel salads 

Wild garlic 

And organic herbal infusions 

Caffeine free tisanes 

And halloumi cheese 

And he claims he's a vegan 

But has a fridge full of bacon 

For the munchies 

After smoking a five skin joint 

Of finest Afghani 

Bleeding works of art 

That never fall apart. 

And his black Pashley bike 

He ponces on around town,  

His so-called “fanny magnet” 

And I hate how it works  

And he pulls the birds 

And his krypton U lock that broke my cutters 

And stab proof tyres that bust my knife. 

And I hate the bastard for the way he asks for 

“Une petite Pinot Grigio, s'il vous plait.” 

And I hope he chokes on the lime slice in 

His soda chasers 

And I hate his well publicised social conscience 

And he only watches RTV 

And his metro-sexual flirting 

With adoring fans and undergraduates 

Book signing at Waterstone's 

Holding court like he was a celebrity 

A somebody 

And not an ugly no talent bastard [bell end] 

And his rip off weekend seminars 

Where he beds the good lookers 

And steals the best plot lines 

And calls it ‘sampling'  

When he puts them in his writings 

And seeing him standing legs akimbo 

For a Spencer Tunick photo shoot 

At the front of the queue - painted blue 

I hate the bastard for his ‘Grecian for men’ hair 

Worn long with a pink clip pony tail 

Or else in a bun 

And his hipster beard 

And I hate the bastard

for his hand knit Fair Isle pure wool sweaters  

And keffiyah wrapped around turkey neck 

And designer distressed jeans, 

Or the white linen suits 

From Primark de luxe with the labels cut off 

He wears with a panama hat 

 

And I hate the bastard when he stands on stage 

In the spotlight 

Dentures ivory white 

All sang froid languid 

With his black fedora at a cock sure angle 

Reciting in a Dylan Thomas meets Allen Ginsberg  

Tone that sets my teeth on edge

And adds gravitas to  

His puerile free verse rantings 

That crowds flock to hear him perform 

And I hate the bastard way 

He graciously accepts the praises 

Heaped on his no talent head 

 

('bastard' is one derogatory term - others are freely available)