Brian!

You’re such a literary lion,
rubbing shoulders with Lord Byron;
rhyme and rhythm start to ripen
as you parade round the cage,
your lines leap out from the page
and the herd run off trumpeting.

Or was that I heard a siren?
Since you broke out of the asylum,
I’ve dug your deeds done abroad
with a pen and a sword,
at least that’s what I thought –
now I’m somewhat discomfited.

There’s been a style revolution:
you’ve gone from Galahad to gruesome;
pampered, pomaded, kind of Proustian,
as you soak in the bath with a toe in the tap,
your luxurious lap is warmed by a draught
of rosemary and lavender.

And I wonder - is this below the belt or under?
I shouldn’t wish to make a blunder
by employing a word like beneath
because it causes you grief.
Was that the gnash of your teeth?
You have still got your teeth, haven’t yer?