A POETS FANTASY

Firing on all cylinders
Lord Byron entertained
as the ladies swooned and sighed
I just felt well drained.


Shelley pulled up a chair for me
his comforting warm smile
made me feel welcome
I always liked his style.

Keats was looking troubled
Coleridge was out his head.
Mr Eliot teased all the cats
but Byron was thinking of bed.

Wordsworth was hillwalking
Blake was talking to God.
Oscar was driving them wild
but I just felt very odd.

What was I doing here
transcending the confines of time?
Perhaps there is no reason
perhaps there's only rhyme.

D.Hinson