I’m sick of Giacometti, Donizetti, Ferlinghetti, Alphabetti
Spaghetti and you can close the Serengeti for all I care.
I’m sick of tweets, Keats, the Beats, certain half-deserted
streets and what goes on between your sheets (however indiscreet).
I’m sick of stand-up straight men, sit-down funny men,
fall down drunk men, Donal Lunnymen, Umberto Eco and the Bunnymen,
James Liddymen and Ken Dodd and the fucking Diddymen.
I’m sick of chickens coming home to roost, Marcel Proust,
wall to wall carpeting and Walter Mitty. And while you’re at it
you can stick Fair City where the sun don’t shine.
And anything you have to say about candelabra, Lady Gaga,
the extinction of the quagga, or The Forsyte Saga is going straight in the Aga.
From Andrea Dworkin these boots were made for walkin’.
And if that sounded like Sinatra no one calls me Nancy boy, alright?
Thank you. Goodnight.