I would like an ideal perfect world in which no one said fuck.
Is this it? No such luck.
Drink can get the better of a man, is that a good excuse?
I can think of better, what’s the use?
I could have been a barrister or even a solicitor, God knows.
I can count my toes.
I don’t want to defend murderers and crooks and read law books.
I could have been a priest, at least.
But that would not suit me, I like to play around.
My theology is unsound.
Instead I did this that and the other, when unemployed I went home to mother.
I did not do absolutely nothing at all, I did something, however small.
I mean by the way exactly what I say.
I may underestimate myself, I’m not a person selling a house or a car.
I sing no praises of myself, I like a bar.
God only is my judge, not even me.
I believe in wait and see.
I wish also I wrote poetry not childish but suitable for a child.
Unfortunately I am not Oscar Wilde.
I mixed with rough guys at school and after.
I love laughter.
If there is even one word in this poem with which you find fault, console yourself with a film made by Disney, uncle Walt.
The perfect world I want would have no slush, sentimentality, politics or crap.
I don’t fall for rubbish, I’m no sap.
The ideal world is not defined in negatives, positive is all.
That’s what I’m trying to convey, I might as well talk to a wall.
I do not solemnly promise never again to use the word I rhymed with luck.
An ideal world is an ideal poem, without muck.
I can’t think of any more to say.
For now, good day.
Words like that should not exist.
They do, in Irish mist.
Friday, 24th January, 2020