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 It was like chucking-out time

In a rough Victorian pub

Cherubic Dylan was first to go

Lachrymose but with a show

Of strength, yelling "Buggerall,

Buggerall, this is my boat-house

In Laugherne, these are my books,

My prizes, I ride every wave-crest,

My loves are legion.
What’s this You’re saying about fashion? Others follow where I lead, Schoolchildren copy my verse, No anthology omits me Put me down! Put me down! George Barker was too far gone To take them on And moaned about a list In a crystal cave of making beneath The basement of the Regent Street Polytechnic.
Edith Sitwell was rigid in a carved High-backed chair, regally aloof, Her ringed fingers gripping the arms, Her eyes flashing diamonds of contempt.
"A la lampe! A la lampe!" A serious fight broke out in the saloon bar When they tried to turf Redgrove out: His image of the poet as violent man Broke loose and in his turtle-necked Seaman’s jersey he shouted, "Man the barricades!" A tirade of nature-paths and voters For a poetry of love mixed it with The chuckers-out; Kennedy, Morley And Hulse suffered a sharp repulse.
Heath-Stubbs was making death stabs With his blindman’s stick at the ankles Of detractors from his position under The high table of chivalry, intoning A prayer to raise the spirit Of Sidney Keyes.
Geoffrey Hill had Merlin and Arthur Beside him and was whirling an axe To great effect, headless New Gen poets Running amok.
Andrew Crozier was leading a counter-attack With Caddy and Hinton neck and neck And Silkin was quietly garrotting While he kept on smiling.
Price Turner was so happy at the slaughter He hanged himself in a corner And Hughes brought the Great White Boar To wallow in all the gore While I rode centaur Charles Tomlinson had sent for.

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