For a Pair of Duff Duff Duffs
You’re leaving the square before I even knew you came.
They pronounce in the paper it won’t be the same.
Thousands of fans whirlpool sinkfulls of tears
build gravity enough to suck in the years.
Public radio, a tongue tied quality drama stutterer,
a serious issues, diseases, ratings mutterer,
trails of soap, wretched exits, pills and rope.
They cry for you, there is no longer hope.
Tacky wipes carry on at eyes till they’re clean
and recovered, from antics of an old drama queen.
Tasteful tributes and unforgettable lines:
‘Get out of my pub, you cow, that bedroom was mine.
You’ll regret every evil, little thing you’ve done
Now take yer mitts off my tits and my bum.
I couldn’t care less, you bitch, I don’t give a fig,
I’m dressed in my widow’s weave and dancing a jig.’
You’ve covered up now; and they’ll lay you to rest
and who remembers you once bared a breast,
or whipped off your bra in front of the teacher;
tickled the fancies of the King and the preacher?
Those millions and millions will weep while they’re scoffing
then they’ll carry you off in a fake cardboard coffin.
Who will gape and gawp until they’ve witnessed enough
to the thud and the thump of the duff, duff duff duffs?