by Hamish Dodd

To my secret admirer
Whose words have hurt me so,
You slandered me in The Poor Print;
Your name I do not know.

Such callous words from callow lips,
Your cowardice is clear,
To take to print with acid tongue
And my good name to smear

I hope you’re at the bar tonight
But think it shan’t be so,
For if you came to meetings here,
Then you would surely know

That I in fact provide the tuck;
I do it every week.
I bring you sweets and tasty treats
To munch on while we speak,

And though you speak of silence
In Doll’s House bottom floor,
The walls are lined with scrumptious snacks
And yummy things to gnaw.

Not fuck the tuck NOR Hamish Dodd;
These words are far from fair.
Nay, fuck the schmuck that with such haste
Could such besmirchment dare.

But now’s your chance to set things right
And show us what you’re made of.
Reveal yourself; take off the mask;
Well, what are you afraid of?

Editor’s note: This poem is a rejoinder to ‘The Silence of the Tuck’, published in our previous issue.