VII

I feel it’s not the masks but simply you
That have so many bigwigs mesmerized:
A royal flush, they say, you often drew;
And presidents and p.ms fantasized
In Petersburg or Prague of being thrall
To you, the master-mistress of their passion –
White blackman-panther, with a Cockney drawl,
Who’s set for forty years, at least, the fashion.
But time which waits for no one’s getting short
(You’re in your early sixties, as you know);
The colours of chameleons can’t be bought,
Your riches won’t come with you when you go.
I’m pleased to greet you; glad you are a knight.
Time to dispel the view that you’re too tight.
Sympathy for Sir MicK
by Michael Peach

 

 

 

Previous Sonnet Next Sonnet