A Rotten Rochester

Well f**k me, he thinks he’s the Earl of sedition
Possibly drinking and whoring enough
To qualify for such exalted position
Aloof and unkempt as he pinches at snuff

Unsure of a welcome in company cultured
So scoffing at those that profess to know Art
He tells us we’re dreaming, unknowing and tortured
But drunkenness little will set him apart

Together we poets forego other fortunes
To settle our diff’rences, savour each line
Uncalled-for comparisons, low blows and falling
He’s here in our cups with his fancies, divine

Reviewing each mouthful with plentiful clamour
To coax of this company swallows and gall
His hopes never plainer, to blind us with glamour
The manner unfortunate, no less, the fall.