The poets outnumber their audience,
But then we choose to be gracious,
Mentioning Chinooks. Perhaps we’ve beenx
Out-Trumped by demonstrations.
Not to mention fares. You can’t expect
The young to hike it herex
Unless there’s an open mike.
I say, fuck the young – feeling about them
Like Boris feels about business.
The young, in their myriads,
Basically attempting to recognise each other,
There being simply too manyx
Even for them, and so they settle for niches:
The post-pride, the uber-feminist young.
Settle your teeth!x
Each of us gets up to read,
Bathed in the radiance of our own voices.
And this could be some arbour
Of Penshurst during the week of peonies,
Or some intimate amphitheatre
Within the precincts of the Villa Barberini.x
As Martin observes appreciatively,
The young may lack the nous
To twig who Edward Heath might have been,x
So usually enlightenment outdistances his verse.
But not tonight, tonight he can dispense with it
– Bringing down the house.
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