My old eyes tell me they are offering claret!
What a most marvellous, unheard-of prize!
Alas! dementia sapiens non caret*
Poetic fame in such a Bacchic guise!
Much money too! A poet in a garret
no longer needs to starve, as cold he lies!
Who wins? A Browning? Or a hot Miss Barrett?
… that is beyond our wildest wild surmise!
£5,000! For sure, the lucky winner
will be, untaxed, the Poet Of The Year
and envied by his poor unwinning mates!
Each word worth more than anyone’s hot dinner
or months and months in pubs of drinking beer!
Joy to the girls or boys that he/she dates!
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