John Cleese lives in the back of my head
in a modest English bungalow by the sea.

Whenever someone tells me how much
they like a poem, I say, "Thank you"
and think, "Of course, how astute!"

Then John's head appears in the window
as he leans back and aims
his look at me with his nose.
He says, "You blithering idiot!
What ego! What conceit!
Have you no shame?
The poor fool hasn't a clue
what the poem is about,
any more than you do!
What drivel! Pure drivel!"

And he walks out of the bungalow
onto the grassy green space
between my ears, begins to walk
in circles with his curious
below the knee walk,
ankles flailing to each side.
Muttering, gesturing,
in deep conversation with the end of his nose.
I hear words, phrases actually,
like "disembowled penguin" and "illiterate turnip".

After a while he notices me watching,
he gestures in inarticulate sermon
and retreats in horrified muddle
to the bungalow. Through the window
I see him pick up his newspaper,
give me a withering glance,
and, with a sniff,
return to his reading.

So if you ever miss
Monty Python's Flying Circus
on the tellie,
ever need a jolt,
just come over and tell me
how well you like my poetry
If the light is just right, you'll see
poor John flailing about in my left eye
although the muttering is hard to hear
outside my head. He's there though
saying to me, "You blithering idiot!
What ego! What conceit! Have you no shame?"