The bones of Mona Lisa,
Of which there are a pile,
May show some foolish geezer
Her enigmatic smile:
Or else a grimace, or a gurn.
Perhaps she pursed her lips. We’ll learn.
Where’s Munch’s melting head
And did it really screech?
Or was it thinking, full of dread,
‘My iPhone’s on the beach.’
Had it recalled, all woebegone,
‘My God, I’ve left the gas-ring on.’
Perhaps the Laughing Cavalier
Had heard a knock-knock joke:
If we could hear the sitter’s cheer,
We’d know if rum and coke
Or half a keg of Watney’s worst
Had made the fellow fit to burst.
But unearth Jimmy Savile
In moptop, shell-suit, shades?
No secrets to unravel.
No need for any spades.
Look back, and don’t flick stations:
Now guess at Jim’s fixations.
Click here to read an Independent article
Click here to read Deborah Orr’s article in The Guardian
Click here to buy Bill’s poetry collection, Ringers