Fitzroy The Poet

The Playroom

Fitzroy, the new Rimbaud

FITZROY THE POET

There was a hubbub in the playroom

A frisson of barely contained excitement

The kids, the toys

Leaping, jumping, shouting, screaming

What was the reason, too much sugar

Too many additives

Probably

And while all this was going on

Who sat quietly, proudly, even arrogantly

On a makeshift throne

Waiting to receive the many who would court him now

It was Fitzroy

Thought to be named the new Poet Laureate

And we didn’t even know he wrote

Oh yes, Fitzroy writes

Ballads, odes, sonnets, haiku

Those kinds of things

That can make you laugh or make you weep

Will you be the same old Fitzroy

Asked the scraggy sheep

Decidedly not, sneered the bear

Drunk with anticipation of his new-found status

Will you leave the playroom

Asked the one-eyed doll

Definitely, undoubtedly, unquestionably, unequivocally

Showing off his undeniable facility with words

The gaiety abated for the realisation set in

Fitzroy soon to leave the playroom

Perhaps never to return

The door opened

Was there news

It was Dad with heavy countenance

And Mum with a timid smile

Then if words could be as arrows as they left the bow

It was so

They chose another

It was not to be

Fitzroy slowly raised himself up to his full height

Then proclaimed to all

In that case I shall never write again.