Cheer Up, It Might Never Scan
If, upon the western seaboard
Every day's a living hell,
Sit down at this Celtic keyboard,
Write a cheery villanelle.
When the weather stops your giro,
When the snow has blocked your road,
I am here to chew your biro,
Help you pen a palinode.
Nothing left to say hooray for?
To top it all, feel out of time?
Hear me twist my trusty Sheaffer,
Turn your whisky into rhyme.
If twilight's sharp as a machete,
If oppressed by loch and quay,
Here: a ready Olivetti.
Let us write some poetry.
Still on the edge? Depressed? You teeter?
These sonnets leave you out of breath?
At least you'll know I have the metre
For elegies about your death.
