In Memory of Philip Larkin

I thought it would last one night,
that case of cooking wine
redolent of soap and brine,
to help me write.

Not having kids myself,
and bugger-all on the box,
I know about keeping stocks,
not books, on my shelf.

But - no. A ring at the bell.
Is it that bitch next door
sleuthing for someone to bore?
Or death? Oh well,

I've had a sort of life:
a few unpresentable girls,
a couple of drunken churls
as friends, no wife

thank God, but plenty of booze...
Again, insistent this time.
I shuffle, snuffle a rhyme
(good, that), but no use.

Perhaps it's carol-singers?
Some neighbour, lost or pissed?
A prurient point I've missed?
Too subtle. It's Kingers.

I hide, quite well, what I think
(what bastard gave my address?)
with a show of matiness.
I offer him drink.

Ten minutes and then he's gone,
digesting my dozen of wine.
I don't say he's wholly a swine,
but he could have left one.

Peter J Ross

(Note: "Kingers" is Sir Kingsley Amis)