Hollow Head

They said, laughing 'why on earth do you write?'
Your stuff is such utter, utter shite
And not only that, you won't fit in
We chucked your syllogisms in the bin
We hurled your haiku down the pan
We shredded your microprose with the extractor fan
It was fun, the pieces looked like the detritus or 'hubris'
Of your fat hieratic hollow head
Now stand in the cupboard for your daily bread

So I said 'but I need to write'
They said 'what about?'
You can't be epic
Or Larry-like, you're merely tepid,
Fat and petty Beaujolais
You can't hide it, the future is we
The union of the 'arty' upper middles
With chocolate druggie, Mohawk and Cree
Dribbling fluid and yellow pus
While you sweat and curse awaiting the bus
(Oh, and a few girls a chiding tiddles)

So they repeated, histrionic, 'why do you write?'
Why squabble over sordid farty pie?
I said, 'twixt shame and defiance
With gut-rot, heart-burn, piles and tender bulging sty
'I need to write'
If I stop
I might die