Monday, March 06, 2006

Address to the inmates at the weekly gathering at The Poet Pub, in London. (Observed by some visitors from Canada who were mortified at the amount of smoke)

Picture this: Me, boozy poet, with bad posture.

Saying: Employment... I`m scared of losing my job.... I get too excited. It's the gout.. What you want me to work for you? I can`t even shake your hand...

Okay, I know what you`re thinking. What next? Well, they say Canadians are boring. It`s true I miss my homeland. You ever seen a beaver swimming? Buck toothed and beautiful.
Here at least the telly is good.

In England you have the Great figures of History: Henry the Eighth. You know the story - when the grumpy ol humpty dumpy gets in a fight with his wife he doesn`t go and make her a cappucino. He cuts her head off. Again and again. In Italy, they call him Enrico. I like that. Respectful. Sexy. Macho. Enrico don`t sound like a fat, man with a high pitched voice, wearing a tent, does it?

So Canadians... how can we be nice when we have the same climate as the Russians?
Lenin`s tomb, that poor bald bastard entombed. In Canada we have out own entombment. Maggie`s son man. Michel Trudeau. That poor bastard is buried under an avalanche of snow in a mountian in B.C.
B.C? Where`s that?

Canada you squids.

That is Switzerland for you Britz. Just minus the Germans.......


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