October 2016 - Robert Ritchie
Robert Ritchie has run Stirling Writers Group for over 20 years. He is an anagram of 'erotic rebirth'; confirmed paronomaniac; eschews doom gloom and tomb in his writing; fights the decline of the semi-colon; cares for his flock of soft-textile puffins; deprecates po-faced potted biogs; venerates Charles Dickens (not just because he is an anagram of Children's Cakes); and would like for his epitaph: 'he had a felicity with words'.
FROM A MOUSE
On being turned up in her (or his) nest with the plough, November 1785
Well, you’re wrong, Mister Burns –
you patronising anthropomorphising bastard
of a bastard-creating bard,
hypocritical lickspittler to the aristocracy;
of moral mien you’re less than squeaky clean,
you jumped-up upstart plough person
with your synthetic sympathy
and pathetic prosody,
damned mouse de-nesting fuddled furrower,
– there was no panic, there
in what you cutely call,
in your couthie dumbed-down demotic,
You presume to know I’m miss, or mistress, mouse
and not, for not so sentimentalising,
a macho mouse,
a rude crude brute of a murine,
of a man.
My mouse-spouse and mouse kins, abode unfixed,
pretext for your meretricious phrase,
my mouse house scheme gang aft agley.
You do not see me cowrin, Mister Burns:
I rant and roar with rodent rage,
stack acrid execration on your pudding head,
and pray, if there’s a power above us all,
time’s fatal scythe on you shall fall.