The Afterlife of Literary Fame

I can’t read fiction any more
And that’s a fact. Don’t ask me why.
God only knows, old fruit.

If a poem doesn’t rhyme, forget it.
I certainly have. Today’s lunch
Was a damned good salmon en croute,

And tomorrow more tests, more tests
To hear my ticker count its beats
Like Tennyson. So put in the boot

With the old one two. Pour me a double
Straight down the horse’s neck
And sound mortality’s horn. Toot toot.

As I sit here in the tweeds of bufferdom
I try to forget myself. Who’s in,
Who’s out? Why should I give a hoot?

You won’t persuade me otherwise, Lord Cobber,
I’m far too far gone for that.
All I shall do is shrug, deny, refute

But hope at least this feature you intend
Will turn a penny for us both.
What is there left in life but loot?