I forget the name of the critic
who said it’s only natural for men
to become rulers of the house of poets.

Childbirth was his defining reason—
that men envy the woman’s certainty
of each of her children being her own

and so the men must turn to poetry,
that hatches within the core of their being,
to find a sureness of paternity.

I’m not sure what this idiot was smoking.
I’ve never stared at what I’ve just written
and thought “That came from me!” It’s far more often

I’ll do that before the realisation
that what I wrote had actually came from
something I read a year ago and then

it also turns out that the very poem
was also far too cute to be believed,
another half baked case of plagiarism.

A baby daughter’s far easier to love
than half the dross that spills out from my head
and come the day she’s born, I’ll finally prove

it’s wiser to love me for my balls instead.


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