The braying of these asses, calling themselves
Journalists, offends me. Common conversation
Bores, and of the ticks and noisome self-regard
Of this time’s so-called literary lights, no good
Things can be said, so I seek out the voices
Of those who bring joy to me. Blind John
Retells the Jewish saga. Others, Philip,
John and William, offer sleekly crafted
Sonnets. Though the weather’s damp
And dreary, it has no effect on me.
I’m happier than hell to spend a day
With my old friends.