I’m never proud of my command
Of rhyme, mode or meter,
But from time to time, I’ll take a stand
and entertain my reader

My mum and pop, though faulted be
Are outrageous, fun and nice
but somehow, inexplicably
They’ve seeded me with vice

I never ever saw it coming,
My daily cunning guile
My drink and dance is unbecoming 
My rummy soot and vile

My rebuttal has faltered, I didn’t expect
My poem, so ever inspired
To sound so dark and suspect
Of the parents God had hired

Could it be that this is right?
Sir Larkin’s central thesis
That we should abandon any slight
Desire in making wee-kids?


I beg to differ, I shan’t be denied
This sacred right to which all are entitled:
To have some babies, and sew deep inside
Sweet vice and hedonism unbridled