The Pensioner Poet looks cool today,

he studies the dust on his capuccino

admires the casual impression it makes,

checks the aerosol in his bag.

Takes a sip from the frothy brew,

he knows his moves, what he must do. 

 

His poetry submissions have fallen flat

nothing but rejection slips;

sipping more of the frothy brew

a pristine verse is rising up

as he drains the ever loving cup. 

 

The aerosol will find its mark

on a virgin wall for all to see,

lines of dissent in society

about all Jeremys - Hunt and Corbyn,

Clarkson thrown in for triple measure,

the idea fills him with guilt and pleasure. 

 

No rejection slip to follow,

a system of fines a possible threat,

and yet,   he'd make the best of it. 

He'll sign the work,  sup with the devil

grab the chance of publicity

get his name in the local paper. 

 

He rises up with a sense of purpose,

never too old for a poetry caper.