The Poem I'm Writing Today

The poem I'm writing today
is flawless in every way.

It won't begin with a rhyming couplet,
just think how ordinary that would be,
nor is crass consonance assured,
my readers bored and doubled uplet
with laughter at my inept structure.
Though worse things happen at synod and see,
my poem's not that kind of mucture.

No, the poem I'm writing today
is subtle. It speaks of eternal truths.
Did you know, for instance, that people die?
They do! I mean, not I, not yet, not on
your Nellie, but you, you could go at any time.
My poem will tell you so. Like this:
Tough titty, mate, you're going to be a goner!
I wish I could break it to you gently.

I shall speak of ancient, marinated sailors
and clouds that wander lonely as poets.
My blacks will be those of bibles, sloes and crows;
my summer's days all lovely and temperate.
I shall speak of fucked-up parents and of
Kingsley Amis's soft beverage preferences.
There will be tiny spiders ascending spouts
and small, blue boys detonating horns.

The poem I'm writing today
will be quite unlike anything I've written before.
For once the beautiful women I see so clearly
will not translate to the page as Barbie dolls.
This is the poem that will change your life.
This is the poem you will teach your children.
This is the poem that A-levels will be done about.
This is the poem that will make Faber love me.

How hard can it be?