27 October 2014
If Dylan Thomas were still alive,
He'd cringe to see my jittery jive.
I do not aim to vex his ghost.
He is the poet I love most.
I love him more than bacon and eggs;
Yes, more than Tina Turner's legs.
I love him like the whiskey neat
That I knock back at Grafton Street.
I love his voice, brazen and sure,
More than the Smiths, more than the Cure.
I crave his rave -- like chocolate cake,
Like chunks of fudge. Make no mistake:
I love him more than pizza pie,
Than Branagh's Hamlet, or ham on rye.
This randy rhymer, roly-poly:
I love him more than ravioli!
My rising moon, my setting sun,
My bardic ocean, he's the one.
I think he's nifty, I think he's fine,
Forever young at thirty-nine.
Right now in a heavenly pub or joint,
He's laughing a laugh and lifting a pint
Or maybe he's thundering sonnets and psalms
To herons and pipers, to Wales in his arms.