Arthur Birling

 

Arthur Birling

 

If you ask about Arthurs, I could name you a few,

if that’s what you’re telling me will tickle you:

how about a pissed playboy millionaire, cut off

when his train fell in the bath, some say shocked

John Gielgud was trying to electrocute the twat.

Or that King, married Queenie Watts up some flat,

Arthur Sixpence? ‘Yes, my dear, ‘ave some of that.’

Here’s to Arthur Fowler who nicked the Xmas cash

from some driveling moribund show, made a dash

for notoriety, but ended off far worse than dead,

noddy donkey, rubbing his knees, sick in the head.

But there’s no Arthur more famous than Sir Birling,

who boxed plenty round caskets of pound sterling,

‘take those to the bank, Shalamar,’ he’d often shout,

so it’s told, being right fond of banging disco tunes,

‘’I Love the Nightlife, Disco Round’ of an afternoon,

burning up the floor rather than some girl’s intestine

with bleach, although, as for that, it’s well believed,

she imbibed it herself, while all those John Smiths

were pulling potatoes and the potatoes pulling back.

And as for Sir Birling, he’s happy passing her the sack,

it comes in dead handy for storage, since you asked,

while thousands of teachers boring the tits off kids,

when Supertramp said it better in, ‘Give a Little Bit’

because a ghoul muttered she ‘kept a diary of sorts,’

so, ‘hey kids, here’s fun, why don’t you write one?’

and there’s Stimpson, at the back, stifling a yawn,

the insolent shite. Nearly 80 years ago she passed,

without the decent manners to breathe her last,

and as good a reason as any to clap Arthur in chains

in some time-looped purgatory, and the self-same

self-righteous speech about fire and shock and awe.

Meanwhile gulfs from here, Arthur Brain's stirring,

a thick set, tinpot turd, fifty years past all unlearning,

stoked steam engines boil in his incense burning

and stroking his furnace, washing minds for ore:

thinks fuck your communities while he spoils for war.