(after Horace Ode 1.15 Pastor cum traheret)
When a DJ drags me off into the floodlights,
(a traitor to his own poetic cause),
and drops me, his class act onto the deck
to grope around the half-lit stage in fear
I admit I’m flattered; wouldn’t you be?
Then I hear the mutterings from the floor,
how her sort are the thin edge of the wedge;
how she’ll kill this place and ruin Davey’s cred.
A boy-band on before me gets applause
that brings the house down; I begin to shake.
Too late to run and hide, I’ve burnt my bridges,
I sense I’m going to end up on my arse.
Now the DJ, silly bugger,’s terrified;
despite the cheapo beer he’s organised
it’s dawned on him he’s serving neither cause:
by playing away we’d had it from the start.
He’s well and truly caught, pathetic dope,
between the usual rock and poetry’s hard place.
Too scared to sing my praises he lopes off
to find himself a safer watering hole.
I shouldn’t have submitted to this coupling;
and the masters of the web have barely started.
Miles from poetry and everything it means
they’ll U-tube me and stick me up on Face-Book.