Poetry by Kevin Coyne from: "A Tiger's Little Growl ", previously unpublished material President He's the fabled sort they build museums around take tea with in their heads Little realising that he's as ordinary as a house-brick and just about as intelligent Fit perhaps for standing behind the hoop la stall at the summer garden party But not to be president oh no not to be president Refreshment Your face is refreshment for the eyes or so it seems My near blindness can of course mislead you could be as spotty as hell in a better light For My German Wife I love you forever my heart is for you all monies too Very poor I might be but the tree of love grows two laughing birds sit on it I ask not for rent from them (for the tree is all mine) only a song or two So they sing with fury shaking down brittle pink leaves to celebrate your beauty No Growl The wolf in my head died the day you gave me carpet slippers After that I took to the settee putting the dog at regular intervals Listening to apples fall of the tree in our cluttered backyard Whispering about sex to myself in a silly voice I didn't recognise as my own Not a growl of anger in me Not a tooth in my head to bite with Jesus Jesus is wearing a wig in all the pictures I've seen Which makes me think he's not as magical as they say He'd have a proper head of hair if he knew what to do Wouldn't look like a member of Black Sabbath with a hangover Bob Listening to Bob Dylan mumble I'm reminded that I can sing clearly but that what I have to say doesn't appeal, probably Bob (2) Looking at a picture of Bob Dylan I find myself singing Blowing in the wind to nobody in particular in a peculiar voice that causes me to unbutton my shirt and inspect my armpits, unsuccessfully, for a possible source