The shutterbugs are swarming
outside my bedroom door:
they’d love to get a photograph
of me and Eleanor.

‘Fie upon thee, shutterbugs,
thrice fie and cold damnation!
Can’t a chap bedip his pipe
without this scrutination?’

‘Away, away, vile snappers,
before I lose my senzes
and bring my stout shillelagh
crashing down upon your lenses!’

‘Did Ansell Adams die for this,
did Warhol kick the bucket,
to snap a gentle beldam
as she’s just about to s—k it?’



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