I can't pretend I just made this up.
The Welsh Wordsmith’s Villanelle
His photographs and portraits line the walls.
The roistering Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive,
Yes it’s drinking, clinking Dylan talking balls,
And talking balls in seven different halls,
The bardman hardman stuck in overdrive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.
This porky poet rises ere he falls.
The welshing wizard takes another dive.
Yes it’s winking, blinking Dylan talking balls.
He’s got the wit but where’s the wherewithal?
Such drones are rightly driven from the hive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.
He can’t resist the constant curtain calls.
‘It’s only when I write I feel alive.’
Yes it’s jinking, swinking Dylan talking balls.
He scrawls and sprawls; they love it in the stalls:
Another sodding Celtic saint to shrive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.
Yes it’s stinking, sinking Dylan talking balls.
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