Graham Fulton: Poet from the West of Scotland

A man
          with murder
in his heart
                  is not what they want
in a primetime slot,
                               not what's required
for the ratings
                      war,
not what they need
                              for the decade
of flowers.
He hasn't
               grown
a beard
            so far.
He thinks
               "There's
plenty of time
                       to tell my girls
to lift their knives
                            and make their mark,
sneakout and freakout
                                   in Beverly Hills,
shoot the high-school creeps
                                             in the head,
slice the starlets
                         with babies inside them,
be the American monster
                                       that Americans
like their monsters
                              to be.
San Quentin!
                     Piggies!
                                  Sharon Tate!
Let the powermen
                             see my face
on the cover of
                        LIFE Magazine,
let them all
                  be believers,
let them be
                  in love
with my version of
                              The American dream
as they taste their
                           root
beers,
          as they bite
their cookies
                     but
till then I'll sing
                         my saddest song,
let the judges know
                               'We get the funniest looks
from
        everyone we meet ¾
Hey! Hey! . . . .' "