There are so many kinds of awful men.

The half-crazed hippy, deeply into Zen,

Whose cryptic homilies she came to dread;

The fervent youth who worshipped Tony Benn –

‘One can’t avoid them all,’ she often said.

The ageing banker, rich and overfed,

Who held forth on the dollar and the yen –

Though there were many more mistakes ahead,

She’d never make the same mistake again.

The budding poet, scribbling in his den

Odes not to her but to his pussy, Fred;

The drunk who fell asleep at nine or ten –

She always made a new mistake instead.

And so the gambler was at least unwed

And didn’t preach or sneer or wield a pen

Or hoard his wealth or take the Scotch to bed.

She’d lived and learned and lived and learned but then

There are so many kinds.

Message

Pick up the phone before it is too late

And dial my number. There’s no time to spare –

Love is already turning into hate

And very soon I’ll start to look elsewhere.

Good, old-fashioned men like you are rare –

You want to get to know me at a rate

That’s guaranteed to drive me to despair.

Pick up the phone before it is too late.

Well, wouldn’t it be nice to consummate

Our friendship while we’ve still got teeth and hair?

Just bear in mind that you are forty-eight

And dial my number. There’s no time to spare.

Another kamikaze love affair?

No chance. This time I’ll have to learn to wait

But one more day is more than I can bear –

Love is already turning into hate.

Of course, my friends say I exaggerate

And dramatize a lot. That may be fair

But it is no fun being in this state

And very soon I’ll start to look elsewhere.

I know you like me but I wouldn’t dare

Ring you again. Instead I’ll concentrate

On sending thought-waves through the London air

And, if they reach you, please don’t hesitate –

Pick up the phone.

Giving Up Smoking

There’s not a Shakespeare sonnet

Or a Beethoven quartet

That’s easier to like than you

Or harder to forget.

You think that sounds extravagant?

I haven’t finished yet –

I like you more than I would like

To have a cigarette.

Manifesto

I’ll work, for there’s new purpose in my art –

I’ll muster all my talent, all my wit

And write the poems that will win your heart.

Pierced by a rusty allegoric dart,

What can I do but make the best of it?

I’ll work, for there’s new purpose in my art.

You’re always on my mind when we’re apart –

I can’t afford to daydream, so I’ll sit

And write the poems that will win your heart.

I am no beauty but I’m pretty smart

And I intend to be your favourite –

I’ll work, for there’s new purpose in my art.

And if some bloodless literary fart

Says that it’s all too personal, I’ll spit