Wortley Clutterbuck

Poesía caliente




“If we offend, it is with our good will.”

—Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.


The faucet drips, the ceiling leaks,

the heat’s been off a full two weeks;

the neighbors curse, the doorman stares —

but inspiration supplants cares.


The floorboards creak, mosquitoes bite,

the carpets stink, the neighbors fight;

the landlord fumes, the rent is due

but here’s the life we’re betrothed to.


Bohemians we are, forsooth 

and absinthe speaks to us the truth;

for art and love’s our paradise —

we live by snuff and die by dice.


The pawnshop scolds, the clergy sneers,

our debts leave our fam’lies in tears;

the pundits scoff, our sweethearts chide —

they don’t know hist’ry’s on our side.


The pantry’s barren, the ice-box vacant,

the phone’s gone dead, the duns’ impatient;

our fame is scant, the bills won’t cease —

the world might lose a masterpiece.


The bathroom reeks, the paper’s gone,

there’s no heirloom that’s left to pawn;

draw straws, it’s up to you, feller —

to sell out with a best-seller.


Bohemians we are, forsooth 

and absinthe speaks to us the truth;

the dilettantes sure have their nerve —

they’ll get the fate that they deserve.

In Praise of Cuckolds


If man’s a cuckold born to be,

‘tis not his wife’s fault, verily;

if he can’t please her where it counts,

why be surprised when rivals pounce?;

if he’s enfeebled in the stones,

why penalize her pheromones?;

now, if the bloke can’t get it on,

I dare say do pass the baton;

if he’s a chap no one respects,

then, certes, he deserves no sex;

‘cause if he’s sapless, that’s on him—

la femme may need to please her quim;

if Guv’nor’s pusillanimous,

why suffer the dame’s clitoris?;

if hubbie’s pintle proves infirm,

why should madame forfeit all sperm?;

if master’s flagpole won’t enthuse,

then elsewhere strays the wife’s belle chose;

if signor cannot pitch a tent,

then elsewhere goes the wench’s queynte;

so, if the Captain comes up short,

blame not the new boats tacking port;

if husbands bungle their sex drive,

don’t ask their spouses not to swive;

hence, men that cuckolds are destined,

concede thy wife’s right to get pinned;

praise to cornutos everywhere

and wives who need relief down there!



It’s better if you volunteer —

I swear, you can enlist right here;

what’s good for nation’s good for you —

just find someone who wants to screw.


It don’t take talent, nor no skill —

don’t dodge the draft, eschew The Pill;

it’s ev’rybody’s sacred duty —

get knocked up getting some booty.


Now, youngsters may think it’s a drag,

that loss of sleep and boobs that sag;

but it’s your obligation to

conform to the social world-view.


First you’re pushing pelvises,

then pushing strollers’ what it is;

it’s like the Army, or Marines,

that push to propagate the genes.


It makes sure that you’ll never quit

that job that makes you feel like shit;

‘cause with a helpless mouth to feed,

you have to run with the stampede.


It gives you structure and purpose,

that filling of the uterus;

it starts off fun, all those hormones,

then home life’s got you by the stones.


Once, hip and all autonomous —

my, what we’ll trade for some congress;

you once were quite the bel-esprit

but now you are spoon-fed Disney.


So do it for the country’s weal —

we all go through the same ordeal;

it gives a chap standing in life —

so up the duff with your hot wife!



“Not At This Address”


The woman that you left behind,

she was the best you’ll ever find;

it’s hard to say just where she went

but she’s no longer paying rent.


The woman that you knew so well,

her new address she wouldn’t tell;

that’s what you get for your neglect —

you’ll never again intersect.


You had a lot of adventures,

but now there’s new things she prefers;

you thought she’d always be right here 

but nothing stays the same each year.


The woman whom you reminisce

is someone you may come to miss;

but, right now, there is no avail

except “return to sender” mail.


The woman that you left behind —

she’s you, except she changed her mind;

the young lady with such caprice

grew up and won’t renew her lease.


Wortley Clutterbuck is the composer of Poèmes Déplorables and Bedtime Stories, both available gratis at Soundcloud. He also busks poetry (literally) a block from where Thomas Jefferson bought and sold slaves in Charlottesville, Virginia. Recent text publications include Quadrant (Australia), Reed (USA) and (upcoming) Stand (UK).