Censorship by James Simmons
A crappy bookshop in a country town.
The manager sets five soiled copies down.
He doesn't care what honesty is worth.
Indifference is a virtue in the North.
'This is pure dirt' he says. I shake my head:
'It's true, it's funny, and it should be read.'
He says, 'We get schoolchildren in the shop,
and people have complained. We'll have to stop
taking your magazine if you print dirt.'
I remonstrate, 'Look, can't you see how hurt
young Harrison would be to hear you talking
like that about his work...?' but the man is walking
back to his lair. 'That poem will outlast
a wilderness of sermons from Belfast!'
I shout, and chase him, catch him as he darts
into his office, and grab his private parts.
He shrieks out 'Jesus. Help!' I squeeze some more,
and two teenagers knock the office door.
We hear them whisper, 'Someone is in pain.'
Damn right. I squeeze his private parts again.
'What's wrong?' a girl's voice trembles. 'Christ! My balls!
He's trying to tear them off,' the critic calls.
'Shame on you, sir' I whisper in his ear.
'Such language, when a young person can hear.'
'It's true. It's urgent. What else could I say?'
'That's how the poet feels,' I smile. 'Good day.'