Blue Plaque Blues
A writer’s house is such an odd museum –
With all their private, not-for-public touch.
Does it forever colour how we see them,
Or just amount to telling little much ?
Must we rifle through their dirty laundry,
And publish all their letters, kiss-and-tell ?
And then complain they put us in a quand’ry
Of seeing flaws when knowing them too-well.
So why does hero-worship seek these holy relics, anyway ?
And basing truth on only what they claim the gossip-mongers say ?
Although I guess some writers would adore the fame they have today,
And sure, let all the crowds come snooping round their hallowed ground…
But as for me, if my words work there due,
Don’t let the creeps come crawling through my caches –
But burn my house, and all its contents too –
And leave the pervy fanboys only ashes.
Rhyming Couplets 