Poetry

A Ballade of Serious Matters

John Whitworth

 

(Verse doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Blood, sweat and tears, that’s what it is.)

 

There are those who suppose I lack bottom,

But my writings consistently show

If it’s balls you require, then I’ve got ’em,  

Plus the spirit of get-up-and-go.

Ah, to hell with it, what do they know?

I eschew their ridiculous chatter.

All their foreheads are villainous low

And Life is a serious matter.

 

I am known for my notions of rightness.

Though I might have internally groaned

I exemplified perfect politeness      

When the Literary Editor phoned.

Though dead drunk, or quite possibly stoned,

He implored me to stay for a natter,

Then he mumbled and muttered and moaned!

Still, Work is a serious matter.

 

As a poet I’m one of the winners

I’m the favourite bard of the stars.

They arrive at my publishers’ dinners

In flotillas of luxury cars 

For spam fritters and frozen Mars bars

Fried in thick, oleaginous batter,

Cherry whisky and Russian cigars,

For Diet’s a serious matter.                                  

 

Ah, my Prince, it was good as a play

When they brought in your head on a platter

And it rose from the gravy to say   

That Death is a serious matter.