cul de sac
Because I don’t like taking flack,
I’m going to find a cul de sac,
not caring that I may offend
within my world without an end
the people who believe it’s tacky
of me to be so cul de sacky.
I’ll do my own thing in the cul
de sac as Larkin did in Hull,
not singing of my mum and dad
who fucked me up, it’s true but sad,
nor of my sisters and my brother
who all must wish they had another
sibling rather than this poet.
You have to cultivate and mow it,
I mean your garden, if you’re somewhere
public, candidly said Voltaire,
but if you’re in a cul de sac
you needn’t jeopardize your back
with heavy garden work, and I,
avoiding it, will be a fly,
observing all the world on grass
that Mexicans will mow, and pass
my time in cul de sacs immune
to pipers who’ve not paid my tune.
You don’t like how I blow my trumpet?
Then, reader, shove this verse and dump it.
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