Acceptance Speech For a Man Winning a Poetry Competition
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.
It is with grace and grateful eyes
that I accept this prize.
I expect its value
and general meekness is not
due to the lack of respect or regard
for my work so hard.
That said,
a better prize next year
would be a good idea.
I stand afront
with decorum and with prided glee,
quite right for such a mind as me.
A mind unseen by the sighted.
My genius was hided
but I the blind guided
and on success rided.
Of course right now,
to my peers I bow.
Too true,
I could not have won without you.
Without a target to unseat,
to beat,
to defeat,
to crush utterly with my will and mental power
I could not tower, as I do,
above you.
Now the subject of my critics,
those in prose who pick and pry
and ask why I choose
to write like I doos.
I'm sure the worth in word and wood,
the cough in Mc Roger
and Jay Chestertons keys,
would chuse to sound and
think like Dr Seuss and me
a bit more if they could.
And now to thank
the failures,
the losers,
the ones whose poems stank,
yet in their entries poured
to make my victory more assured.
They could not be sadder.
Their work could not be badder
if it were carved in dung.
It's only right,
as the winner in this fight, by God,
that they become a rung within my ladder
and upon trod.
And now dear friends,
dear public, readers.
Buyers.
Not the bastard liars
who type and set and put me on the internet.
I talk about the ones with class,
my mental kin,
nice skin (not black),
decent job,
buy books not on looks and always in hard back.
Won't queue.
Queueing won't do.
Cultured,
like me.
Not the bacteria who watch tee-vee
or pay any fee to the sodding bee bee cee.
Not poofters or actors,
not contractors, or builders
or any form of labourer or
labour voter or promoter.
Not students or scroungers or loungers.
Not spastics or loonies, fatties, amputees.
Not single mothers, in fact no women please.
Not perverts or priests,
not trackers of trends,
not people with friends.
The rest I salute.
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