Bloody poets
(after Wendy Cope, at some distance)

Bloody poets are like bloody tractors.
You open the gate for them and they
come in and plough up your mind
leaving long straight furrows you follow
to their end, only to find a turn and
another set of lines to be honoured
until you return to familiar surroundings,
leaving clods that fall from your shoes
onto once-clean carpets. The Dyson
will remove most of it but your visitor
silently remarks on the residue
and, as you cannot blame the poets,
you blame the kids. They do like
their football, you lie.