The critic gushed and cried, “Oh, just like Jack, so raw,
I never thought to see another writer just like Kerouac!”
Kerouac, who the cluck is he? A writer? Christ, that’s a
laugh, compare me to a writer! Hah! Let’s face it, ‘tho
no hack I’m not a movie star to be, but maybe Jack
‘The Rambling Rat’ took to crumbs like me.
So she likes the verse; well maybe not, I see her eyes
are focussed far too short for that. She’s hot, fortyish,
a horsey bitch (it means she’s trifling fat) with glasses
and an acre for an arse – what a place to ponder,
you’d get lost and wander for a week.
But I’ve the time, let me guess she’s never short on
gratitude; she’d screw me right tonight because she
can, and if I sold a poem that she liked she’d let me
stay the night, perhaps a week. And just like Jack I’m
free and easy – but Jack, poor Jack, is really dead,
while I’m his living legacy.
© I.D. Carswell, 1972