A long time ago. Someone dared to call me a South Parkian poet. My feelings were dashed upon the things that people who seek to dash another's feelings dash these stolen feelings upon. Was it because I cannot pronounce Welsh very well? Could it have been that my English cousins are just too gosh dern stuffy? I drink long tea leaves too Mr. Magoo. My young man's lips a cursing crimson tongue flick. A beauty sent to push the brazen hotties. Their backstrokes away from me, sheer terror. Me, my teeth, my fun, racing up their lengths to the inbetween that is between their timid fancies. I am not timid. I is a 'one big time hunter'. My friends hail me Sir Gunther MacCunter from the MacCunt clan. Except I pay another to go wearing my kilt. Whilst I avenge my flesh 'a one big time naked'. Begging from house to house to wash my feet and hands and various members. (the cartoonies) It was there, I mean then. When I found love. The love I had been missing was Sir John Betjeman's. Now, though us both dead gay and in outer space, with the other dead gay fabulous imperialist poets I have found my sanctuary between his siamese shaft and an ode to TIMBUCKTWO. "Myfanwy Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy, White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress, Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the nursery Soap scented fingers I long to caress. Were you a prefect and head of your dormit'ry? Were you a hockey girl, tennis or gym? Who was your favourite? Who had a crush on you? Which were the baths where they taught you to swim? Smooth down the Avenue glitters the bicycle, Black-stockinged legs under navy blue serge, Home and Colonial, Star, International, Balancing bicycle leant on the verge. Trace me your wheel-tracks, you fortunate bicycle, Out of the shopping and into the dark, Back down the avenue, back to the pottingshed, Back to the house on the fringe of the park. Golden the light on the locks of Myfanwy, Golden the light on the book on her knee, Finger marked pages of Rackham's Hans Anderson, Time for the children to come down to tea. Oh! Fullers angel-cake, Robertson’s marmalade, Liberty lampshade, come shine on us all, My! what a spread for the friends of Myfanwy, Some in the alcove and some in the hall. Then what sardines in half-lighted passages! Locking of fingers in long hide-and-seek. You will protect me, my silken Myfanwy, Ring leader, tom-boy, and chum to the weak. From "Old Lights for New Chancels" (1940)". This poem was in every way meant to viciously slanderize everything English and wholesome. Because, yes, I'm a Yank that could give a yank you pompous batch of tea drinking sissies. By the way Winston Churchill? I'll do him next. Right after I pull Mrs. Roosevelt off of him. And that Japanese Admiral.