SUNDAY 13th SEPTEMBER 2009.

I believe the previous week deserves a mention
On this mid September Sunday before what’s
Been drawn is erased in favour of another one.
Beatle business has tempted everybody’s wallet,
Football's received a boost and actually lived up
To English expectations, the sun has decided to let
Us see it for more than a few hours a day and early
Morning mist has reminded us of its bewitchment.

The daughter met the man who made her, and
The world didn’t end, Harry smiled more widely
And made me cry, the dogs are getting foggier
With age and food is slowly being upgraded by
Seasonal root vegetables and all the better for
It, while Christmas fizz has been spotted on the
Farthest peripheries of the supermarket although
Nobody admits to having seen it this early on.

The oldest classic horse race in the world, the
St. Leger, was run, and no doubt won, by some
Nag in Doncaster, and I’ve been on another of my
Vaginal history tours where I, and a conquered
Assortment of ladies, rearrange the patterns of
What actually happened and dare anyone who
Wasn’t there to question it, then send mental
Requests to those who were to get in touch again.

Now I’m not an anecdotist, or great wit, and half
The words I get to write appear to me as if not
Mine; my hands are soft because I’ve spent too
Long indoors, and though their muscle structure
May applaud, my arse and frame complain as
Vociferously about the lack of it, but know this,
And know it well: no cunt in London is going to
Tell me what to do, so I’ll be damned if you are.