What passable cup drove you to enter
My City Gallery poetry reading?
You were quiet until it was ‘question time’
Then ranted about ‘The One’, inviting
The audience to, as it were, go forth
And multiply! Which I so richly
Deserved for my lame joke that the rhyme
For ‘death’ in Yeats’ epitaph
Was not really ‘breath’ but ‘meth’!
In brewery tones you confide in me
That you are known to the local gendarmes:
They cry out ‘Bob, Bob, heal thyself,
Come down from the cross of the Majestic Centre
The one with the post-post-modern crown of thorns’