I’ve just read More Fool Me by Stephen Fry.
I finished the
book – I don’t know why.
There’s oodles of
self-mockery
Couched in
torrents of post-hoccery,
Where processions
of media dahlings
Murmurate like
cantankerous stahlings
Especially at
night, often in clubs,
Where one avoids
hoi polloi snubs.
In rarefied air of
this sort
One can visit the
bog for a snort,
Meet actors,
directors, all of the kind
While imbibing
until dawn’s drunkenness blind
Afore a stumbling
or taxi home
Or to one’s next
work randomly roam.
Always a sense of
the naughty boy
But planned by a
promoter’s ploy.
A complex sort,
our Stephen,
Whose path in life
was oft uneven
Despite a comfy
start in middle classes
Before he took to
lads, ignoring lasses…
But that’s now a
long time past
In memoirs already
so vast
This is already
number three
While the author’s
fifty is yet to see.
No doubt there’s
many more
O’er which fans
will eagerly pore
But for me, this
falls below a parity
Which demands
purchase for charity,
Second hand,
perhaps twice lived,
Experience
cleaned, already sieved
But out of synch,
bereft of rhyme,
One wonders if
it’s worth the time.
