A SECOND LANGUAGE

I know a little French,

A little German too,

Some simple words of Spanish,

In Greek can say ‘fuck you’.

In several other lingos

I can speak a phrase or two.

Mostly something bad,

Insulting, sick or blue.

English is the language

Taught at mother’s knee.

It’s my mother tongue;

Fluent I ought to be.

But my spelling is atrocious.

In grammar I do err.

My punctuation, ugh!

My vocabulary only fair.

Many new Canadians

Learned English when they came.

Now they speak it better,

Put us natives all to shame.

So I’ve set myself a goal:

A second tongue I’ll not pursue.

I’ll work on proper English;

To those others say adieu!

MY FANS

I’ve many thousands of fans,

From Alberta to Oz to Japan.

They read my work with delight.

I’m a laureate in Azerbaydzhan!

My fans the intellectual elite,

The cream of the literate crop.

They have insight, humour and soul.

As winners they stand at the top.

Were they in the Olympics,

Every time they’d win only gold.

They include the straight and the gay,

Young, middle aged and old.

They express a preference for verse

That swings with rhythm and rhyme,

Whose meaning is perfectly clear,

Whose truth will endure for all time.

They also appreciate wit,

That rare and wonderful thing

That from unlikely places

Can sometimes surprisingly spring.

I fear they can’t get enough;

My goal is a verse every day.

But Thalia my muse has been known

To go on a brief holiday.

My fans give me ideas,

Subjects I can turn into rhyme.

With them I’d happily share

The returns that ought to be mine.

But so far I’ve made just a million,

Barely enough to get by.

When it gets to a billion,

I’ll send them all a bottle of rye.

Rye is a Canadian drink.

It brings out the poet in me.

It also brings out the liar.

My fans really number just three!