There is no order in modern life
disarray, inherent to strife,
pervades our homes, our streets
our coffeecakes and gas receipts.
The workdays drone, confusion reigns
and every cubicle contains
a lonely number of a soul
on emaciated payroll.
The films and novels prophesy
a resolution - friends, they lie!
There is no fingerprint on the knife
and no order to modern life.
This may be a relief because
variety could give us pause
to think, reflect, turn circumspect
but friends, we shrug
and we forget.
There's purpose to be found in pause,
in dwelling fondly on our flaws,
in love, although, only the kind
that leaves you dearly intertwined
with longing, misery, and dread
at least that's what the poets said.
Auden would speak of mortal love
and finding our poor world enough.
Wilde, of undying adoration
wrote verse and prose, and of temptation.
Bulgakov, countryman of mine,
he flourished writing underground -
in secret was his genius bound.
What of mine own ill-fitted words?
they crumble into the absurd.
I am not suited to this time,
to sit complacently and rhyme
the petty satire of this age
and whine whilst those who take the stage
lack passion, intellect, and that
which charms a grin onto a cat.
I have no charisma, no charm
no tricks with which I could disarm
anyone. But I do have love
I'm unrequited, unheard of
And unconventional it's true
but always extending toward you.
Because "I can't help quoting you"
See, "every note you sing rings true"
I'll plagiarize, again, I say
wishing you a lovely birthday.
For half a century and one year
you've compelled our ears to hear
the disorder of modern life
of Thatcherism, wreaking strife
with the provincial and the poor
and culture bred by greed and war.
and so, forever and a day
your songs shall play, and stay
and play. Take better care,
one day I hope
(unless you first elope and disappear)
to treat you, in my most sincere
and gorgeous poem,
wretched as words appear
without your subtle tones.
For now, this clumsy rhyme conveys
Infinite praise, wishes for many years and days
and nights of lonely composition.
There is no power without submission
and love compels passivity:
Yes, Happy Birthday, Morrissey.