Ranelagh Is A Den Of Anaesthetists

Ranelagh is den of anaesthetists
Sniffing fine prosciutto ham in Morton’s halls
Dragging back their English Springer Spaniels when
They follow fox spoor on their shit patrol
Occupying old Edwardiana;
Scooping out front gardens
Gravelling them and there corralling
Shiny tractors with a million horsepower
Even though the roads were built for just the one.
I would like to stop one and consult her
But I can’t afford the fee.


Pome For Scholesy

Farewell then, Paul Scholes
You often put with majesty
Your foot right through the ball
To huge effect
(Though sometimes, the contact point was lower)

A Ginger Devil,
You did strut and fret your hour on stage,
Adored from the gods
In the Theatre of Dreams.

“Break a leg, son”,
Fergie would mutter in your ear backstage.
“I’ll do my best, boss”,
You would honestly reply.