A poem I consheived in a fit of grumpinessh lasht night on twitter, after sheeing yet again the ‘look at me’ tweetsh being shircultated by adoring fansh of a particular young fellow-me-lad.
O you, with your pale, rabbity fashe,
o you, looking like an uncooked pashtie minush the egg wash,
o you, writer I cannot eshcape sheeing
O you, whoshe back catalogue conshishtsh of varied offeringsh that
have not taught you to prizhe what you have
but only increashed your ambishion
O you who continuesh to shelf-promote
even though your publishersh are employing a team
to do it for you in far lessh annoying manner..
O you, little boy pershonage,
in your friendly chshecked shirt hiding a milky ribcage unadorned by mushchle,
o you, perennial teenager..
O you, who no doubt mean well,
you who needsh the attenshion of every man woman child monkey pigeon whale lemur tadpole bishon on earth
O you who can shurely afford to take shome time off
from hanging your limp featshuresh and pointy jaw out there
to be admired, you, o you…
O you, you, you blithering too-shmall-and-closhe-together-eyed mashculine oobit of the shouthern landsh,
take yourshelf off, if you pleashe!
That concludesh my poetic rant for the moment.
(No, I won’t identify the shubject for you.)