A trainee poet, of no fixed ability,
seeking inspiration, quaffed the night away.
Awakening at dawn, semi naked on the lawn,
he perceived a figure emerging from the mist.
It was Saint Roger Mcgough,
wearing a Balinese skirt, Scottish Dirk
and oddly flourescent socks.

Trainee poet awestruck by this visionary
‘Pontiff Of Pun’ begged and pleaded
to be blessed with what he needed; awaywithwords.
He grovelled, he groaned, he moaned platitudes
by the dozen. Saint Roger, shell-shocked
from this cannonade of clichés, produced
his latest book, withdrew a concrete poem
and promptly dropped it on the trainees foot.

It was all very messy.

Syllables cymballed across the grass
crashing into phrases which fractured
and fractalled away. An entire sentence
ricocheted off the shed downing a passing
pigeon. Then, in a haze of imagery,
Saint Roger was gone.

Trainee poet was admitted to hospital.
His body having been immersed in verse
now sprouted sonnets, rondels and rhyme;
a condition which could only be alleviated
by severe editing. Couplets were carved,
from his spine, the spleen yielded an entire stanza,
whilst commas littered his lungs.

The trainee wrote no more; but often, when ginned,
he would mutter about the poetry he felt within.

Stephen Beattie

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roger-mcgoughs-socks/