John Keats wrote, frankly, dippy poems with c9mplicated rhyming schemes yet the British public voted ‘Autumn’ as their sixth favourite poem. Autumn. Hmm, mists and mellow fruitfulness, eh? What about drunk wasps on a stinging spree. Or bloody conkers dropping on your noggin without so much as a by your leave. And don’t get me on all those crisp leaves that carpet the pavement and hide that malificent, glutinous dog turd…
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Like that time that mother cried cos dad ran off
With Gail from next door, snotty nose, hair a mess
And her cold hard hands, and her smoker’s cough.
I didn’t mind him going much cos he’d stopped my
Pocket money. It wasn’t fair, not really as Chris’d
Taken the last of the fruit pastels from
Dad’s supply. He said he didn’t want to – sigh –
But he had no choice cos if Gail missed
It she’d take it out on him and when pissed
Off she was horrid. I never liked Autumn.