Green my vacant room for a minor player

of the harpsicord. Can’t help my heritage,

stout and beer-drinking: calves thick with

muscle, tending to heels. Pedigree

weak but soul willing (so far so wrong).

University, yes, and such an adherence

to the literal. Several excellent books;

frightened of self onstage; cut off hair

to spite nose. Still, you like these old forms,

fading records covered with white film

like a cold chocolate bar so you see

how they scratch when you spin them.

Here beats the heart of a working class

half aspiring to a pretension it is too afraid

to mock. Where are you now, Beveridge? Bolton?

Oh there, in the audience, adoring—I couldn’t

see you for the followspot. Daddy dearest,

I’m round like a kitten and my kitten teeth too.

So soft, my white jumper like any boy’s beard.