today's young would-be Byron
works on an assembly-line
assembling lines
with built-in obsolescence
& less sense
this lyricist is on the make
his dream is that one morning he'll awake
& find himself famous
then he'll go from bed to verse
he fantasizes everyday
adventures of the bard at play
pretending he's bionic Byron
flashy poet flaunting fleshpots
hard at it with a hundred harlots
pausing only briefly to dash off
a full-length epic or perhaps a postcard
he's frantic
to appear Romantic
had his hair curled specially
in case the ladies beg for locks
he practices a limp as well
to look Byronic
he gets histrionic
but donning a Bri-nylon mac
somehow lacks the manner of a swell
he had a trauma in the font
that ruled out the Hellespont
a super-hero could just swim it
the shallow end's about his limit
the Muse he's after wouldn't win
A Beauty Contest
too flat-chested
she's a crone
barely more than skin & bone
his coruscating wit has gone
a little rusty
though in his spare time he puts polish on
ironic rhymes & chronic puns
still they go from bad to worse
so tomorrow's ageing failed Byron
seeks to improvise himself
taking a correspondence course
in how to be well-versed in verse
he's learning Greek by Linguaphone
& has a brochure from the Travel Agents
he boasts he'd fight & die for freedom
yet if the truth were really known
he'd much prefer a peaceful life at home
Little davy king
Byron > Eye-con
(of course, it helps if you're a landed Aristocrat...)
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