ALICE'S COMPLAINT

Things have picked up, since the time we last met
I'm a general au pair and a Muse.
I've moved in to live with a poet, called Brett
who made offers I couldn't refuse.

He's a reasonable bloke, he's not treating me bad
in the day, his demands are not many.
It's better by far, than the last job I had
pole dancing in Abergavenny.

I pass the days shopping, and making his meals
light housework, and doing my nails,
but when he comes home from his shift on the steel
he's the worst bloody nightmare in Wales.

For it's poetry, poetry, all the night long
he can't get enough of it, see,
he could do it alone now, so don't get me wrong
but he says it's much better with me.

So it's "Alice, I'm wanting a quick Villanelle"
when he taps on the door of my room.
That bloody Sestina - it gave my back hell
and I didn't enjoy the Pantoum!

An ordinary Sonnet I take in my stride,
I've handled a number of those.
But the Clerihews give me a stitch in my side
and cramp in all ten of my toes.

It's poetry, poetry, all the weekend!
When he's sick, he can't give it a rest.
I'd like a lie in, but he can't comprehend
that a Muse needs to be at her best!

The poetry though, is such wonderful stuff
(never liked it, when I was a tart)
if my stamina's gone, and I look proper rough -
well, it's all in the service of Art.