The bastards tried to shut me up. The poetry police. The gibbering classes. But a McWhiinie will never stop ranting until he feels the cold smacker of Death on his fevered brow.
They made a mistake and I was able to sneak out of the suburban garden shed they'd kept me locked up in since last summer. 6 months with only a three legged chair and a tiny length of hosepipe to keep me company. Of course they thought I'd starve but there's a lot of insect life in a garden shed and over the passage of time I was able to keep alive and lose the 13 stone needed to squeeze out the tiny window, And now they're running scared, the bohemians, the look at me brigade, the local poetasters.
I had time to scratch with a small sharp splinter something like 298 poems on my skin in my own blood and with the help of a long mirror I am able to transcribe these for your delight. Here's one off my arse.
Poem From Off My Arse
You wouldn't think it possible
to write a poem on your arse
i've been told by arseholes
"I say, That poem's arse"
and so it is, this time.