Poetry Scrap

A bunch of poets had a scrap last night.
There was blood and guts, but no high school.
This was the stuff of afternoon Assizes.
No quiet afternoons contemplating Keats.
No hosts of golden daffodils.
A tag wrestling match, ala Mick McManus.
A lyrical punch in the groin.
The Liverpool man said: come head, come head.
But nobody listened; not until the end.
When the Manc lad was laid out and carried out.
Leaving Mr and Mrs Frenzy to clean-up
the mess of bones and gristle.
And some poor sods missing missal.


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