If Dylan Thomas were still alive,

He'd cringe to see my jittery jive:

I do not aim to vex his ghost;

He is the poet I love most.

I love him more than bacon and eggs,

Yes, more than Tina Turner's legs;

I love him like the cognac, neat,

I used to drink at Grafton Street.

I love his voice, brazen and sure,

More than the Smiths, more than the Cure!

I crave his rave like chocolate cake,

Like chunky fudge. Make no mistake:

I love him more than pizza pie,

Than Branagh's Hamlet or ham on rye.

This rowdy rhymer, roly-poly ---

I love him more than ravioli.

My rising moon, my setting sun,

My bardic ocean: he's the one.

I think he's nifty, think he's fine,

Forever young at 39.

In heaven, at some jam-packed joint,

He's laughing a laugh and lifting a pint

Or maybe he's thundering sonnets and psalms

To herons and pipers, to Wales in his arms.