Poetic Widow 
 

  She said, 
  I'm sick of you just sitting there 
  staring into space 
  You haven't shaved or brushed you hair 
  you're a bloody disgrace. 
  You're miles away, you haven't heard a thing I said 
  it's all that rotten poetry 
  it's gone right to your head. 

  I can't get anything done 
  I ask you where and when 
  all I get in return 
  have you pinched my pen? 

  But I consider myself a martyr 
  battling enormous odds 
  trying to spread Eric's gospel 
  to those poor unfortunate sods. 

  Poetry, Oh poetry 
  you got me in this mess 
  you fed me all that rubbish 
  and my greedy heart said yes. 

  A poet Laureate you said, riches galore 
  make a million, franchise this stuff 
  they'll be knocking on the door 

  Well the only door banging I hear 
  is my misses, coming dear 
  and she's got jobs galore 
  so put away your pen Eric 
  and dream of the good days of yore. 

  Of poets such as Shakespeare 
  Byron and more 
  I bet their bloody misses 
  didn't bang on the door.
 
 


(C) Copyright 1999
TIC
All Rights Reserved


The Nexus Collection
Tongue in Cheek

A Child of God

A 'Coaster'

A Day in the Square

Canterbury

Little Old Man

Little Old Man (2): His Wife

Man of the Land

Poetic Widow
UFO Rap



CONTENTS