He was the ‘comical’ artiste formerly known as Bill Bottom,
who was politely applauded at the ‘open mic’ night at Blackpool’s Dirty Blondes bar.

However, the reviews were savage, for crude jokes can only get one so far,
and he had chosen a silly pseudonym.
After critic Eric Leopard-White described Bill's act as ‘puerile,’
he set off for the English Lake District, to revive his creative spirit.

He sat down, after performing his stand-up to an audience of sheep,
but jumped at the words, ‘Oy, watch out!’ uttered by a beetle.
‘That rock’s been graced by famous writers,’
said this little creature, ‘from Potter the great children’s author,
to Wordsworth the poet.

‘My antenna detects you’re full of hate,
for a newspaper man who derided your comic efforts,
but one day you and he will swim down there.’

‘By the way, even those musical icons,
named after my people, were rejected at first.’

‘Really, which ones?’

‘The Beatles, of course.’

He suddenly felt incredibly hot, so stripped and jumped in the lake,
only to be accosted by a submerged woman.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘you have a well-toned body,
but can you write funny verse?

‘Serious stuff is all very well, as I used to tell my old pal Wordsworth...’
 
Just then a party of walkers appeared, and she disappeared,
not before calling, ‘Come back soon, and we shall finish our flirtatious encounter!’

‘My God!’ The walkers screamed, ‘We didn’t expect this,
when we enrolled on our outward bound course.’

Grabbing his clothes, the young comic disappeared over the hill,
and hid in the waterfall known as Willy Wordyworth’s Force.

Recovering from his adventure, Bill felt an urge to write,
resulting in a children’s crime series, Betty Beetle,
who became television’s favourite teenage ace detective,
and did what many so-called comics have done,
jumped on the TV panel-show bandwagon,
and everyone forgot about the struggling comic known as Bill Bottom.

One day he visited Blackpool bar Dirty Blondes,
where in his youth he’d tried to break onto the comedy circuit,
and encountered his old nemesis, Eric Leopard-White, sobbing into his beer.

Hello, ‘You were my greatest critic, when I performed here.
You have a good way with words, as I learned to my cost,
so why don’t you take advantage of your literary prowess?’

‘Alas, I’m beset by the blues, so am wordless.’

‘Sorry to hear that, have you heard of the lake land poet called Will?’

‘Of course.’

‘Follow me to on high and we will use his spirit to revive you.’

Eric soon found himself on a Cumbrian rock,
where he jumped into a body of water,
but just like before, a party of walkers appeared,
and several photographed the former critic.

Drying off, he was bitten by a beetle, but quickly stifled an angry oath,
when he saw the poet Wordsworth, atop nearby mountain Helvellyn,
praising the Gods of Cumbria, and Bill gladly accepted old Will’s gift of verse.

On his return, he mused, ‘I can’t believe it,
rather than writing tripe about upcoming comics, I’m now a revered poet.’

Visiting Dirty Blondes again he was greeted with a hug,
by the club’s resident comic, who declared,
‘You’re an internet sensation,’ revealing a video of him in the water.
You’ve been seen all over the worldwide web, baring all, in that beautiful place!’

Eric laughed as he recalled this encounter, thinking,
‘How ironic - I must thank that guy Bill,
it all happened after I followed him to the Cumbria's Lakes
and was bitten by a bug.’

Then, one day his old fears returned, and he thought,
‘I’m an old hack, not an establishment poet.’

Then Eric cried, ‘I’m desperate as I’ve lost my literary prowess.
The Times Literary Supplement critic has lambasted my latest book,
What’s it all about? as sentimental claptrap, so please help.’

‘Gladly old boy, follow me to the Lake District.’

Fans of Eric were soon pleased to read in The Times,
that ‘Leopard-White’s recent collection, Critical Critique, is a return to form.’

Meanwhile the man himself was swimming with the female resident of the lake,
watched by the comic he’d once derided.
He couldn’t help boasting to her, ‘I’m a poet now, not a hated critic.’

‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed, ‘I rank you on a par with my mate Will,
that great romantic scribe, and many a flirtatious walk we enjoyed by the lakeside.

‘By the way, don’t try your celebrity chat-up on me, I’ve met ’em all,
and that old comic saw me first.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame, do you have a sister?’

Then a famous poet called out,
‘As a son of crazy Cumbria, I welcome you to my Lakeland idyll.’

A grumpy sheep passed a sacred rock,
and baa-ed, ‘Is everyone mad round here?’

‘Bugger off!’ Muttered a manic beetle.