The Ode Best Left Untravelled
I saw you, you bugger, thinking you’d be
Just an anonymous surfer from across the sea.
But my blog has few hits, Mr. Stephen Fry,
So you could hardly pass by this eager old eye.
But I’m glad that you came, for now you may see
A person unlocked by your book on poetry.
I followed your rules and on page ninety three,
Learned diddly dum and diddly dee,
Metrical whatsits, iambs, and meter,
Which I’m using here. Block storage heater…
Have you guessed I haven’t worked out the rhymes,
What to stress or even when to enjamb my lines?
I should really have chosen to write this in free
Verse. Oh, now this line’s running awkwardly.
Goddamn it! A pure rhyme. It’s getting no better,
And now I need something random like ‘red setter’.
That’s just lousy, I’m like the new Colly Cibber,
The poetic equivalent of poor old Fred Dibnah.
Mr. Fry, you were a fine blog statistic,
Then you weren’t, I’d missed you, it’s bleeding sadistic.
You’re a swine, a rotter, a cowardly cad,
You wonder how I know? I’m nearly as bad.
Or perhaps you smiled and reached for the phone,
And intend to sue me as soon as you’re home.
Don’t try, please not until I’ve told you the tale,
Of when I was viciously fondled by Alexi Sayle.
So, like a part-nibbled herring, here I shall wait,
For you to come finish what’s left on your plate.
You were here, for a while, but now you are gone.
How do I end? With bugger! And diddly dum.
© Richard Madeley, 2007