(after Horace Ode 1:29 Icci, beatis)
So, old mate, you want to make your name.
To see yourself as one of the elite?
You think you’ll conquer Hooray Henry hearts
by buffing up your scruffy state-school vowels?
You’ve no chance pal. Your glottal-stops will slip.
No poet-scholars will ever big you up
when scripts by them are hijacked and killed off.
They’ll tease you but they’ll keep you in your place.
Academic poetry boys still rule OK!
They flex their lyric muscles on the canon.
You think they want to hear what’s in your mouth
even though you watch your p’s and q’s?
Now you cross your t’s and dot your i’s
you think you’ve cracked it do you – think you’re in?
Well better think again you silly sucker,
you’ll find your novelty will soon wear thin
and we won’t want you either once you trim
your verse like them, on Sunday afternoons.
When you escape your accent then the Tees
will trickle up towards the Cleveland Hills.