Will no-one spare a thought for Neil
whose daily round is pain and strife?
He makes up forms, pretends they're real
a 'Glose' indeed! Hey, get a life!
He used to be a fighting man
entrenched from Burma to Malay
but now forgets it when he can
by lolling in a caravan
with Ali Qatah's fair array
of oriental beauties. Feel
his disappointment, every day
a different concubine, a way
to bathe the wounds that never heal -
Will no-one spare a thought for Neil?
The agony goes on and on
so many loves to satisfy
ere his virility is gone
(so little to rely upon).
So many new techniques to try
with each delightful passing wife.
But take your hat off to the guy
you'll never hear him moan, or sigh
'no respite till the afterlife!'
Whose daily round is pain and strife?
And in between to pass the time
he turns his hand to poetry
the kind that has to scan and rhyme
the ancient stuff he deems sublime
to rescue from obscurity.
But when there's nothing left to steal
from literary history
then, perish the audacity,
the thought would make your blood congeal -
he makes up forms, pretends they're real!
He gives them names to pull the wool
like Sanitas or Bungaroo
or Pocolips. It's sweet to fool
the gullible. There's plenty who'll
believe him if he tells them to
and dance entranced before his fife
and drum. But come, there's nothing new
in fiddled fraud, we've heard a few,
but this last turning of the knife -
a 'Glose' indeed! Hey, get a life!
