No-one could do appalled like you:
thirteen hours on a bus to
bimbo narrate the Holocaust?
You slurped through screenings and speeches,
(Je ne parle pas
Français became your mantra)
and kept tabs on Clare's scarves and shawls,
niggled by how a home-counties mumsy
could suddenly become une
I frolicked with salamis and testicles of garlic
and covering up my ignorance of cheese
mimicked a sommelier, replete
with elongated vowels and rolled rhotics.
You cottoned on, dismissed me with a grave
smile. We'd never be the next New Wave.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Brian
Edwards would be pleased to hear them.