The Posh Writers’ Society
comprises types of a peculiar variety
all of whom strive to impress
with their extensive vocabulary,
gleaned from a well-thumbed thesaurus.
What better way could they find to bore us?
If Wordsworth had been of limited lexicon,
and wandered lonely as a cow, would his poem
‘Daffodils’ still be being read now.
And, as for Hemingway, would the story he tolled
have had the same ring, if it had been called
‘For whom the bell dings’
I know what The Society will do with my poem.
They’ll go through it word by word.
Then, to make themselves feel superior
they’ll dismiss it as being absurd
which, according to Roget, is
another word for hopeless.
Roget and out
David Gant – February 2019
In your pursuit of transient fame,
you care not who you hurt or shame.
From wherever it is that you choose to hide,
your fingers spread your venom far and wide.
Your airbrushed selfies on the screen,
make you look so cool, so mean.
Your words spewed out with bile,
leave no-one doubting your intention to revile.
What is it that they do to you that makes you act this way?
What makes you vent your spleen on them, every single day?
Now, this may be hard for you to take,
but we’ve just about had enough of your carping bellyache.
At last, the time has come for you to stop harping on,
so, pull out the plug, scarper and be gone.
And, when we hear the bugle’s sound,
we’ll raise our glasses and drink a toast.
Knowing that it sounds to tell us,
of your very Last Post.
David Gant August-2018