David SmithWhite

Rookie (270552 / Australia)

'Fergie' - Poem by David SmithWhite

(Inspired by N. Coward's 'Nina')


Now this lady Fergie was much too worldly for naive princes;
although her relatives and friends despised spinsters,
she vowed she'd never marry one until she died!
She said: 'I've read romantic novels: where all will grovel,
to the antic and stinking wealth of royals
while claiming them unspoiled,
whereas they couldn't be more pretentious if they tried'.

But contrarily she met, wed and mated, her future, a rush,
come all at once, and much too much too soon.
A foolish press salivated, just to push their gush
and flush the honeymoon.

With a tone less stiff and starchy
she said that the 'paparazzi’
were merely paper 'Nazis’
and should be pitched into the pit.
And she didn't give a shit
if that offended them one bit!

She refused to disabuse the views
she once had attested to.
So she toiled as the royal foil
for the oily retinue.
She was their 'ingenue'.

For although nothing ever really scared her.
Not Lady Sarah. Nor steal her thunder.
When the jealousy of others caused a blunder,
she would zealously protest it was a plot.
She said there were these forces, that were remorseless,
and had pursued her, and yes perused her private moments
and accused her, of being something awful she was not!

In the deepest bowels of antipodean castles,
in the towers of Mardoc and his howling arseholes,
hear the low chanting rant, the damned cant in the canto:
'Whaddya bloody mean we can't?
You're all a mad mob of wowser dingoes!
How does the song go? ' And such 'imbroglio’.
'You're the c-word you can't mention to your aunt!

'After all, this Lady Fergie is no turkey, nor she's a drongo.
And I think, between me and her, we can tango.
She's 'a natural', with an actual fiery flair for hard romance.
Yes, this Lady Fergie' is so perky, and she's so tactile.
All full-blooded erectile tissues do a dance!

'Now love can be so fluky, and quite kooky.
It can be spooky when all the cookie
jars run out of lovely lucre,
the publisher can push a huge advance.
You know I don't mistake her, for she's a shaker,
and a taker, and she knows with private acres
her life's enhanced.

'Now she's known to atone for her philosopher’s stone
as the key that will free her and deliver her from fear
she owns, only alone, and solitary.
And can be changed in a glittering exchange
for something more monetary.? '

Now Lady Fergie was much too quirky for innuendo,
though it seemed a harmless place where lonely men go,
she'd not compromise her morals for petty cash.
She was quickly losing patience, with her relations,
as her marriage, was significantly and irretrievably damaged;
they cut her dead and watched her world collapse.

But when some chose to expose her in a playful repose,
she cheerfully admitted it. If she was, she supposed,
so caught in the throes with those millionaire's toes,
then frankly, she was an idiot.
To have so innocently permitted it.

She said: 'I feel so unprotected
when I'm publicly inspected:
on a slab, cut up, dissected,
and so vapidly displayed.
As if designed to degrade.
I am helpless and betrayed.'

She said 'I hate to be despotic,
but I'm going quite psychotic,
my world is both chaotic and unfair.
I may not be too choosy
but I'm not some royal floozy
to be used so gross and loosely
as juicy tabloid fare.'

And so she continues to soothe and perversely improve
what is vastly in truth, our cynical image of her.
And she moves in the grooves that behoves
those of a more privileged air:
her savage 'savoir-faire'.

Now clearly Lady Fergie's, motives are murky,
and she's hinted darkly, any reconciliation must be low key,
lest all hell breaks loose and the shit will hit the wall.
'This whole style of titillation is all bile and irritation:
an affront, a stunt, and an immoral pile of trashy distillation.
It is the violent annihilation of the self: a violation
that so surely makes cowards of us all! '

So Lady Fergie is still chirpy, and so romantic,
as she cavorts between the shores of the Atlantic,
she still drives all those who love her to ' homage’.
It's not that she's dogmatic, more she's emphatically
erratic, or traumatically dramatic. Automatically
she can engineer her static in the charge.
She is the sporty buttress that supports the royal ruptures:
she is the consummate Duchess writ large!


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Poem Edited: Saturday, July 12, 2008


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