Gabby’s Poem To The Dalai Lama
I had a busy Sunday. After I’d finished watching the football and signing an online petition to jail Paris Hilton, I wrote a long deeply spiritual letter to his Holiness, the Dalai Lama. I barely had time to finish it and post it before I had to head off to the Green Dragon Tavern where I did my randy traffic warden routine, which has become something of a crowd favourite every Sunday night.
The letter had been Gabby’s idea. Personally, I’d resent it if the Dalai Lama turned up in Bangor and tried to teach me my job. There’s little that a man in a toga can tell a man born to the thong, but even should he be enlightened in some mystical ways of the hidden pouch, I’d still question his interference. Which is why I hesitated before writing to tell him how to do his job.
There are times, however, when even the reincarnations of Avalokiteśvara needs a bit of advice from North Wales’ top stripper and, in this case, I’ve put him straight about this business of his retirement.
If you’ve slept through the weekend, you might not have noticed that the Dalai Lama has decided to quit public life. The news brought Gabby no end of disappointment, given all the charity work she does on behalf of Nepal. I try not to involve myself in her causes as she won’t help me with the charity work I do on behalf of nipples. However, Gabby thought I might be able to talk some sense in the Lama. She’d already written a letter of her own and, bless her rhymeless little heart, included a self-penned poem in it.
In your humble Chipster’s opinion, the following bit of 'poetry' is more likely to make a spiritual leader lock himself away in a monastery, but I ask that you don’t laugh. I’ve promised to post it here, though I’m sure the sceptical ones among you will think it lacks a certain poetic quality. All I can do is reprint exactly what Gabby scribbled on the flyleaf of my first edition of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land…
To The Dalai Lama On The Occasion of His Announcing His Retirement
Wise old man who’s more Dalai than lhama,
Do not retire while still in your prime-a.
Wiser than Attenborough, purer than Snow,
(Both David and Dickie, Peter and Jono),
You’re balder than Richard (the Cliff and the knight),
And like Felicity Kendal, don’t enjoy a knife fight,
But when it comes down to your spiritual healing,
You’re better than Cilla, or even Jan Leeming.
You’re also eternal, like Match of the Day,
Though your next repeat is a lifetime away.
So don’t go and choose that Buddhist retreat,
When we could have two weeks together (timeshare) in Crete,
Because dressed in a toga, you’re my super hero,
With love, from Gabby, Chip, and Richard Gere-o.
Well, I’ve done my bit by reprinting it and I think you’ll agree that it doesn’t make much sense, especially that bit about Cliff Richard.
Everybody knows he is actually the twelfth reincarnation of the original Cliff Richard…
6 comments:
As I said elsewhere, poetry is shit, and this just goes to prove it.
I hope you're happy, Edwina. You've broken a poor Romanian girl's heart.
Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind, Chip. However Gabby can be consoled with the thought that while all poetry is by definition shit, hers is comparatively wonderful. Even if still fundamentally shit.
Now you've made a Romanian girl furrow her brow in confusion but then decide to treat your comments as a West End producer treats reviews.
She immediately loaded her word-processor and has now added 'Wonderful -- Edwina Currie' to the cover of her collected poetry.
I've no problem with that, Chip; the girl has pluck. I've had another quick look at her piece and there is one bit that I will draw especial attention to, and that is the rhyming of "retreat" with "Crete" which is particularly fine. As far as poetry goes(and it doesn't go very fucking far), that is about as good as it gets.
I thought that rhyme stood out too. And Gabby is now beaming with the kind of pride that can only be enjoyed by somebody simple of either mind or spirit.
I prefer to think it's the latter.
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