He pressgangs me on Saturdays
as I’m sifting through the papers,
when, archduke of my breakfast, I’m
susceptible to my brilliance.
In an autographed gown he sits
to my incredible scrambled eggs.
My perfect coffee snuggles in his palm
while he alleges my potential.
To hear him talk is to promenade
in chinos along a beach speckled
here and there with everyone you’ve ever
wanted, on a rumoured Riviera.
He thinks I could be huge. He
hates me. His pep talk is a lure
to going absolutely nowhere, because
why would I? While he talks,
I’m already there. I’m the big
poppa. My memoirs are calfskin
and lifetime achievement is a pearly gong
to paperweight my royalties.
His plot against me is to have me
stay with him in eternal breakfast,
where his whisperings may ravish me,
his footsy work up to my balls.