So I wrote a poem. I don’t know why: it’s not something I do often. The poem is about Lord Byron’s monkey; or at least, it’s about one of the monkeys Lord Byron owned when he lived in Italy. Again, I have no idea why. But here you go.

Lord Byron’s Monkey

I am Lord Byron’s monkey.

I reside with him between high walls

And beneath thick impasto brushstrokes;

Our apartments are a receptacle for light,

And darkness.

Sometimes,

When we take the carriage

From Florence in the rain,

I go caparisoned

In riding cloak and cap,

Clinging to the seat

Next to the hairier driver,

And bearing a little silver-topped cane.

On hot days, and there are many,

A child’s parasol –

Always, always a neckerchief.

Of monkeys there are,

It must be admitted, two of us.

Also peacocks, dogs, an eagle,

A falcon; an Egyptian crane.

But he says I am his favourite –

And the others do not go abroad

Apparelled thus.

I listen to Byron hold court,

Seduce,

Orate.

Always we are on campaign,

Always storming some citadel,

Real, metaphorical, or imaginary.

Always we sally forth:

Always, always, we are late.

I am Lord Byron’s monkey.

Sometimes I caper and dance;

Sometimes, in a limited way, I recite.

Sometimes…

Sometimes I throw shit at the walls.