Poem By Max Gatrell
I’d like to tip the band wagon of this irksome trend,
The advent of the hackneyed scribbler urging us to spend,
By using poetry to pander renders it terrene,
Profusion of these awful adverts aggravates my spleen,
Our House is now a brothel, it’s rotten to its roots,
Virgin Media made it thus, a haunt for prostitutes,
‘Way back when’ by association, it was a safe retreat,
Since being pimped to a corporation, Our House is now effete,
Am I inclined to buy my swine from a northern-gent?
Or do I choose to cleave my cheeks and fry them with intent?
What is it with these accents, are they pleasing, more sincere?
Does it seem as if when reading they squeeze out a little tear?
Over fondue I could dangle employees of Cathedral City,
Maybe peril due to melting could inspire dormant pity,
For their wretched rhyming scheme and dreary intonation,
Which to me is so prosaic, it reeks of defecation,
Ashamedly I’ll cite my sin hypocrisy’s a drab disease,
Despite the fact I hate their couplets, I adore Cathedral’s cheese.