Egophilia
Boom, boom, it was a metaphor,
A length of honest rope –
A phrase we’ll all feel better for,
A very pleasing trope –
It makes you think, explosively,
With grim but gay abandon
Of when a man blown up like me
Has not a leg to stand on –
I wear my suicidal pants:
They creak. Their guy-ropes snap.
Inflated by my clever rants,
I deal you reams of crap.
I have myself and by the throttle,
And kill myself with quips:
There’s poison in my brittle bottle –
I’ve had my final chips.
With gas so rancid am I filled
That, should I meet my match,
I should of course (do check my build)
Go bang. I am the Thatch
In waiting, hoping death by fire
Will burn me into ash.
I am a loud, compulsive liar,
What Yankees call blond trash.
This detonating belt is mine.
I’ll be a million pieces
Of blood and guts, but never spine,
And lorryloads of faeces.
Click here for a Guardian article
