To all my fellow suffering poets

I got into my Range Rover

and headed to the beach.

On the way cashed a check

and loaded the cooler

with Patron and Dom Perrignon.

 

I called my stock broker

to tell him to send money

to my bookie.

I put 200 quid down on the 7th

Exterminator to win.

 

It’s a bitch being a poet

lying on the soft sand

cold drink in hand.

It’s a bitch pretending to be the

poor degenerate

everyone wants you the poet to be.

 

Read these poems of mine

‘nd make no

mention of who I am.

My jacuzzi isn’t big enough

nor does heaven

accept get out of jail free cards.

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