'Come off it, Roz,'she'd say,'and cut the crap.
I was no saint. You know it. Half the time
I was depressed and sulky, and would wrap
Myself in gloom. You'd bitch at all the grime
Fag ash left on my stuff, and all the smoke.
In dead of winter, if I came to tea,
You'd make me stand outside - pretend to choke
If I lit up. And all this misery!
I'm dead; you're not. And if the stiff were you
I would be over it. And all this verse!
I ask you, sonnets?! bloody sonnets! Who
D'you think you are? Rosetti? Fuck it. Worse!
Christina!!!' I'd just love to hear her moan
If Hades or Elysium let you phone.