All that art and culture’s not for the likes of us,
We’re listening to rap not Puccini on the Clapham omnibus.
Lacking the kudos of a private education,
We’re all posting on Facebook at the railway station.
I’m not much one for Shakespeare, not that keen on the bard,
Find the syntax difficult, don’t wanna work that hard.
When it comes to a McGuffin, or one of Chekhov’s firearms,
I can’t tell a red herring, from a real cause for alarm.
I’ve got very little patience for Pinter’s frequent silence,
When I saw the Birthday Party, I needed notes for guidance.
Arthur Miller must have something, to pull Marilyn Monroe,
But that Death of a Salesman was agonisingly slow.
Alan Bennett’s a Yorkshireman, it’s Leeds where he was born;
But I couldn’t fathom Kafka’s Dick and it certainly isn’t porn.
In waiting for Godot, that play by Samuel Beckett;
Do three eventually turn up at once, or do the audience just say “feck it”?
Rees-Mogg and his mates say Cogito Ergo Sum,
When they’re sitting at the opera, laughing at us scum.
A la recherché du temps perdu,
Don’t know what that means, do you?
Semper in faecibes sole profundum variat,
That’s all life holds in store for us, the lumpen proletariat.
Everyone's a Batley Poet