On a dreary and sleepless night I think of the works that I might write: A beautiful epic of great import Comprising quatrains about life in Stockport A verse history of the global Marxist left A tragi-comic ode on Tony Hancock's death. A sonnet sequence about revolution Or Fermat's Last Theorum and its solution. A compelling exploration of modern society A sestina concerning Freudian psychiatry. A villanelle dealing with death and depression Couplets denouncing a tyrant's repression. A poem of praise to the great McGonagall The rhymes rubber ball with bugger all. They tell me to write about what I know To hell with that, I have too many things to show And too many arrows in my bow.