Rudeish bit

"The Rudeish Bit of Old Khayyam"

"Awake! For morning in the bowl of night"
Has vomited — and it is getting light
And lo! This poem has begun
Its bloody endless metaphoric flight!

When I awoke, I must have been hungover
As though I had been in Beirut or in Dover
And in my ears, like music of the spheres
Some moron whistling "The Gypsy Rover".

I listened like the undead for a bit
Then, through, the casement, "Put a sock in it!"
I shouted — the milkman did not respond
I tried my head on — and it did not fit.

Imperatively "In the fire of spring
The winter garment of repentence fling!"
Quoth Old Khayyam — but he did not intend
A woolly vest morosely smouldering.

"The bird of time has but a little way to fly"
And then perhaps it will discreetly die
Amd leave poets and dustmen all in peace
Like Icarus, sudden falling off the sky.

This verse is just like those which went before
Pointless in the extreme, an utter bore,
Completely null, devoid of plot or substance
There isn't even any blood or gore.

"Dreaming when dawn's left hand was in the sky"
I contemplated, then I asked her "why?"
"If you do that, your arm will start to ache"
She said "I live, and then I'm going to die."