Famous Men

One rule for us, one rule for them.

That’s how we cope with famous men.

At age thirteen, they drew a scene

of Venice with its Grand Canal.

By fifteen, they had met the Queen,

had fucked Mae West and Gore Vidal.

At twenty one they’re having fun

with Alice Toklas on the Seine,

then off they go to Mexico.

They hopped the Albuquerque train.

By twenty two they owned a zoo

and sailed beam-ends to Borneo,

sat in with Miles on Kind of Blue,

composed an oratorio.

At twenty four, they went and saw

the Hindenburg come crashing down,

then fought the Spanish Civil War;

knew Orwell, Hemingway and Pound.

At twenty eight, they found a mate.

They took a princess for a wife.

With two plays opening at the Gate

they settled in to Dublin life.

At thirty four, another war!

They’re on the beaches on D-Day.

They’re liberating Sobibor

and flying on Enola Gay.

They joined the nascent OSS,

assassinated diplomats,

beat commies at a game of chess

on Berlin Alexanderplatz.

At thirty six, they got a fix

with Burroughs at the Beat Hotel,

sold Berber jewels to hippy fools

at Maxims with Coco Chanel

and in Jamaica, took the sun,

a novelist at forty one,

a chocolatier by forty three;

they’re in the car with Kennedy.

Then Christmas nineteen sixty three,

they turn their hand to poetry.

It’s simple, fun and worldly wise

and wins the fucking Nobel Prize

and then begin the salad days,

the soaking up of endless praise,

the selling-out for millions,

the literary brilliance…

and now I turn to my own life -

a dog, three children and a wife.

It all seems petty, routine, small.

as though I sleepwalked through it all.

While others travelled wild highways,

I settled for mere holidays.

They seemed to live a hundred lives -

ten children, half a dozen wives.

They met with passion each sunrise

while every dawn I compromise.

So much time I feel I wasted.

So much spice I never tasted.

All the chances I have missed.

My whole life’s on my bucket list.

I try to think I’m happy now

and justify myself somehow;

those other men had different tools

and played their game by different rules.

They had more fun. They did more stuff

but I suppose I’ve done enough.

That’s how we cope with famous men.

One rule for us, one rule for them.