i sing of prawns, of Prados, pills, and powers,
Of perennial unvibrant wowsers.
I sing of arseholes, cockcarts, ‘burners, trains,
Of loungerooms, lounges, and drivers without brains.
I write of uncouth love, and the excess
Of it and its push-shoving wantonness.
I sing of spews, of drains, and, short and long,
Of prams, of Old Spice, and Hyde Park dugong.
I sing of gates of star, which, at first blush
Shuttled me to the graveyard of the bong,
To report on toilets that do not flush
And the tree of the everlasting thong.
I write of worst, I sing (and ever shall)
Of Po-Vi, and reckon to have it all.
(With apologies for any inconvienience to Robert Herrick).