While other cities and towns such as Birmingham and Warwick are busily appointing their own Poet Laureates, I noticed that Oxford (the city with the largest number of writers-per-square-mile in Britain), has been woefully remiss about keeping up with the times.
Having missed out on Poet-In-Residence of Oxford Bus Company, I have therefore decided to redress this shameful civic oversight by appointing myself; Poet Laureate of Oxford.
Henceforth you shall address me as 'Your Worshipful Odemistress of Oxenford City'. Courtesy curtsey lessons will be available in the Town Hall - to be announced by the Town Crier.
So if any of you other local poets want it, you'll have to fight me for it - quills at dawn! Hand-to-hand Haiku's! But I warn you, ink will be shed.
Mwah ha ha ha!
They'll never take me alive!
Now, where can I buy a white long-haired cat and an evil OdeJob henchman?
On the subject of Laureates, Gloucestershire Poet Laureate & top poetry slam champion Peter Wyton has written an excellent poem for another Laura of his acquaintance (another???? Can there be such an outrage?) - evidently with kindred world dominational aspirations, which I reproduce below with his kind permission.
A LAUREATE FOR LAURAS
Every Laura ought to have a Laureate. They owe it to their name.
And they’ll proclaim their Laura-ness this way.
Starting today, the League of Lauras will employ a Corps of Boys
Who’ll glorify, from cradle to all-night rave,
The extra-special aura of every Laura on the planet
From Andorra to Zamora, signorina or senora, each troubadour will chronicle
His Laura’s life from maidenhood to wife or paramour.
He’ll celebrate her slightest trait because there’s so much more
To Lauras, they’re impulsively impetuous, voluptuous and valorous
And mischievously humorous or so their toy-boys chorus. If the old conquistadores
Had chanced upon a continent of Lauras just west of the Azores,
Who’s to say they’d not have stayed and lost all interest in the notion
Of transiting the ocean to discover all those North and South Americas
Full of…Ericas! If you’ve savoured being favoured by a Laura,
You’ll be aware that she won’t care, if you strike up a good rapport with her,
Indulging in a tug-of-war in Baltimore, or sailing off to Singapore aboard
An Albercore, or doing a marathon for charity upon a penny-farthing bike.
She’ll hike up Everest for you if she thinks that’s what you’ll like.
That’s how it is with Lauras, once they’re for you they will utterly adore you,
Yet, when their seed of love is planted, you must not take them for granted.
The Laura you ignore will kick you out the bedroom door
Before your feet can touch the floor, but if you compare her, say,
To the aurora borealis, she’ll promote you to the A-list
Of her ‘kiss-me-please’ celebrities. You may even be permitted,
If your face has really fitted, to unpeel her like a peach
On some desert island beach. And then you’ll find your Laura
Sun-worshipping on her back and in the words of Cilla Black,
You’ll see a lorra, lorra, morra Laura than you’ve ever seen before.
In case your natural euphoria at this point gets the better of you don’t forget
That Laura’s Laureate will be squatting right beside you
On a deck-chair or a lilo with a very bland expression and a notebook in his hand.
And he’s not rooting for you, what he’s going to do is score you!
If he holds up 9.9, that’s fine, but should you dive below a 5,
You bet your Laura will abhor you and her laureate will have some terse verse on Romantic etiquette, along the lines of STOP! You’re not a bull. She’s not a china shop.
That’s Laura. I implore you to employ finesse. You must caress her
To impress her. Think Dresden shepherdess, not sumo wrestler,
Oh, for goodness sake, you masculine mistake,
© Peter Wyton