I suppose I oughta put it like this:
I want to be asked on Desert Island Discs:
I could easily talk about all of my picks.
I want to do that Guardian Q&A
At the front of the mag on a Saturday,
But nobody cares what I’ve got to say.
I want to turn down an OBE.
Fuck off, I’d say, with your imperial decree.
But these things never happen to me.
I’m just not on the radar for that kind of fun.
All the books and the writing that I’ve ever done
Just never provoke invitations to come.
Unofficial biographies, quizzes and games
Are mass-market in nature, resistant to fame
Though they sell well (sometimes), they don’t uplift my name
And the DIY self-published poetry books
Look amazing, feel great, and the contents are good
But no-one else thinks so – no reason they should.
I’m the first to consider the punk spirit alive:
Just do it. It’s all down to belief and to drive.
And that’s true, but it’s late now and I’m getting tired.
Success is all relative; how else could it be
When there’s multitudes struggling hideously
Through the spam and the slop? I’m in fine company.
