The Price Of Fame
I like to peruse the charity shops
at least once a week.
I once bought a book by Roger McGough
for only 40p.
Today I happened to find myself
inside Cats Protection;
there, between Drama and Mental Health
I spied a collection
of poetry written by local bards
and the CD we recorded,
plus Ian McMillan, John Cooper Clarke.
But, could I afford it?
It sold for ten pounds when first published;
poets got one free.
My ex has thrown mine in the rubbish –
jealous, obviously.
I was just about to check out the cost
then thought, should I leave it?
If I take this volume from the shop
no-one else will read it.
I said to the girl at the counter, Look,
as I fished for money,
I’ve a couple of poems in this book
and one’s very funny.
Are you famous then? Show me which are yours.
I turned to the page;
there were complicit smiles, a few guffaws –
you should be on the stage!
I could tell her about the pressure
performing Spoken Word.
A recitation might impress her,
but I’ve lost my nerve.
I say, I ought to get this book for free
seeing as I’m in it.
She finds the price, it’s just 30p:
thus am I diminished.
