Unlike those Peter Pans, you wisely sell
More than one image to the pagan crowd;
You’re bound to neither Never Land nor Hell,
You can look gentle, tough, humble and proud.
Not only does this entertain, it gives
You room to grow into the state that’s due:
Mellow, autumnal ripeness, where peace lives –
Don’t let the surgeons your chiselled face renew!
Meanwhile one image with your life has merged,
Namely the skinny fat-cat, flying high;
Do you assist the underdog that’s scourged
Or wash your hands, like Pilate, and deny?
I’m pleased to greet you; hope you feel some shame.
If not, Sir Mick, you’ll never fit this name.
Sympathy for Sir MicK
by Michael Peach




Previous Sonnet Next Sonnet