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 John Whitworth
is one of those fattish, baldish, backward-looking, provincial poets in which England is so rich (perhaps too rich).
His ninth collection, Being the Bad Guy, was published by Peterloo in November 2007. You might also consider Writing Poetry published by A & C Black, one of those how-to books; it has run to a second edition and is jolly good, though he (the poet) would say that, wouldn’t he?
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My Furry Feet
I am a well-conducted child,
Not disobedient or wild
But marvellously meek and mild
And very clean and neat.
What wicked person left a pair
Of muddy footprints on the chair?
Don’t look at me. I wasn’t there.
It was my furry feet.
I eat my cake and drop no crumbs.
I am especially good at sums.
I am a superstar with Mums.
Old Ladies call me sweet.
Who tripped poor Piers ffitzparker-ffitch
And laid him in a muddy ditch?
I know the criminals—by which
I mean my furry feet.
Some children howl like wolves, or feast
Like hogs, or stomp like wildebeest.
I am not like them in the least
But quiet and discreet.
Who booted Angie’s B – U - M,
A horrid deed we all condemn?
It wasn’t me. ’Cos it was them.
My dreadful furry feet.
Nobody is as nice as me,
From top to well below the knee
I am as perfect as can be,
And good enough to eat.
So, though the evidence is strong,
Remember—Ican do no wrong.
This is the chorus of my song.
IT WAS MY FURRY FEET!
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