I was trying to adapt 'The Swan Maiden' but somehow this is what came out...Not sure what I think about it so honest opinions more than welcome :)

Why is it always bloody Shakespeare? You'd have thought the whinging cow would have been fed up of the boring old git by now, wouldn't you? Fat chance, 'Write a poem' she says, worse than that, in fact, 'Write a love poem.' Then, when we thought it couldn't get any worse, 'Write a love poem in the style of Shakespeare.' In the style of bloody Shakespeare? What does the woman think she's on? Like I want to write a poem in the style of a dead bloke. A boring dead bloke at that. Oh well, here goes,

'Oh, my love, ofttimes have I watched you dance

writhing to a melody beyond mine ears,

subsumed by music, looking askance

at me as I circle...'

Nah, I can't write that, what a load of old crap, mind you, she'd probably like it, all it needs is a bit of 'thee and thine' and there you go, authentic bloody Shakespeare. Why can't what we just say what we think? In my case,

'Oi, Johnno! You gonna ask me out or what? Yeh, I know you're always lookin' at em when you think I ain't watchin'. It didn't take a genius to work that out. So just bloody get on with it, OK?'

I don't think that'd go down well somehow, in fact she'd probably blow her nut. OK, take three,

'I once knew a fit bloke called John

When I see him I get quite turned on

It makes me feel funny

and then I get...'

God, that's even worse, she'd have a fit; could be quite funny mind you except she'd probably send it home to me mum and then I might have to sit through the 'responsible sex' talk again. I'd rather write the bloody love poem. I don't know who gets more embarrassed, them or me. I nearly put 'em both out of their misery, told them I've already done it, wasn't that impressed really (mind you, it was with Mike, everyone knows he's not got much where it counts). I don't see what the big deal is. Well, I suppose I've got to try again, I wish the poem would write itself, it'd save me a lot of time,

'The things we never said come back to haunt me

She left her lipstick on the mirror,

I walked out into a street full of rain,

what did you expect?' *

I like that, wicked. That's the first bit done. Sounds a bit familiar though...bet I've nicked it from somewhere. That'll go down like a lead-balloon, it's called 'plagiarism' apparently and is 'generally frowned upon', then again so is farting and people still do that. Guess I can't use that, don't want to be a plagiariser, do I? Is it even a word? Plagiarism? Plagiariser? Sounds made up to me.

We had to read English folklore last week, comes a close second to Shakespeare for sheer pointlessness if you ask me. They were raving on about this story, 'The Swan Maidens', some bloke said it's, 'one of the most beautiful stories evolved from the mind of man.' ** You can tell a bloke said that, the story's a pile of crap. I mean, this bloke tricks this girl out of her feathers and makes her marry him. Then he goes and hides the bloody coat anyway so she can't fly away. To add insult to injury, when she finds her coat and escapes he follows her home to her father. It gets worse, instead of telling him to bog off, her old man says that if he can find her, he can have her anyway. What a load of old bollocks, I'd have kicked him where it hurts and run away (oh and I'd have kicked me Dad where it hurts too). Most beautiful story evolved from the mind of man indeed, I bet he had his head so far up his own arse that he could see daylight coming in the other end.

I'm still no closer to writing this poem, I reckon it's an impossible task. Still, one last go, this'll have to do,

'You used to rock me to sleep,

once upon a time.

You used to cradle me and whisper,

'Goodnight, sweetheart.

I love you.'

You used to love me Daddy,

once upon a time.

Why then have you abandoned me?

Cast my tail feathers

amongst the mud on the floor,

plucked me and left me to my fate.

You say he won me,

fair and square,

an honourable conquest.

But where is the honour

in lies and deceit?

Where is the honour when the trap springs

to snare the bird within?

As I lie here, wings pinioned,

heart speared, trussed,

trapped, smeared

with blood from your heart,

I hope your honour is satisfied.

I hope your honour is assuaged,

Daddy.

I hope you are pleased to have

disposed of me so honourably.'

* derived from, 'The Things We Never Said' Thea Gilmore.

 ** Edwin Sidney Hartland