Why We Killed Socrates

Gorged out of measure is my feeling for him.

For not much of a reason, I don't much

Like him - I look at him, I laugh

With disgust from my senses and my sense.

And among the discerning, they brag

Of liking him, as if it were a skill.


Witnesses heard him bedding men and women,

My spite hears moans from a cold coverlet.

Those I love so often think him charming.

It's not even that I'm jealous, just

Incredulous. Rarely does anyone extract

With such crassness the numbers of mobiles.


The men I want to recognise

My quality - they've accoladed him,

Cambridge and Oxford shine with slug-trailed dew.

That's alright, as it rains a lot round here,

But vile silver softly clasps at hair,

Now he crawls inside all our pastimes by the Thames.


He doesn't want to stay. He's got

Better things to do. E.g., in London

I saw him lick his phone as it oozed honey.