Keats and Chapman had joined a book-reading and literary appreciation circle. Most recently they and their colleagues had been reading the collected works of the Irish writer, Bill Fitzsimons. Chapman, being a little shy, had not said much during the meetings, but on the way home he loosened up, and regaled Keats with his opinion.
“He’s no Liam O’Shakespeare,” said Chapman. “Nor Beckett, nor Joyce, nor is he quite like Ma Yeats’ boy. But he has emulated them all, in search of himself as a writer.”
Keats nodded sagely. “He has gone from bard to verse,” he said.
When amphibrachs are beyond their best
And your sonnets will not scan,
When you can’t tell muck from an anapest,
BAD BILL THE POET’S YOUR ONLY MAN!
When verse is read to an empty room
That’s devoid of kith and clan,
When writer’s block is author’s doom,
BAD BILL THE POET’S YOUR ONLY MAN!
When Sapphic odes are outside the pale
And iambs are down the pan,
When metaphors grow weak and fail,
BAD BILL THE POET’S YOUR ONLY MAN!
Bad Bill’s your man, Bad Bill’s your man!
Hurrah, hurrah for Bad Bill, your man!
For he’ll poem and rhyme till he’s done his time –
BAD BILL THE POET’S YOUR ONLY MAN!
Bronze trophy winner
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