“He looks like Heathcliff; he 
is rough, passionate, forceful”
—Jill Barber

I was nothing but a Murderer—
Mytholmroyd Hoodlum of the Moors

I slaughtered the English Muse—
Like I caught and killed stupid rabbits

I skinned and gutted them raw—
All bloody there in the kitchen sink

But Sylvia Plath my American wife—
She hated my guts for doing it

She wanted me to be Wolf in bed—
But not in her clean tidy kitchen

She was afraid of me all the time—
Surely I’d kill her & the kids someday

What else could she expect from a—
Yorkshire Killer like Jack the Ripper?

The same with Eliot and Auden—
Those pansy British poets of renown

Down on their knees giving me a—
Blowjob for British Poetry posterity

Especially Auden & his nelly lover—
Chester Kallman & his young Gk soldiers

Going down on them in the Acropolis—
In the ancient naked Athens moonlight

These were the nelly British queens who—
Slithered in Britain's Waste Land of Fags

They clung to me at cocktail parties—
Attracted to my butch Mexborough smirk

The more I scorned and ignored them—
The more they wanted to publish me

It was surely Publish or Perish for them—
They craved my sullen Killer Poet Instinct 

Something they couldn’t possibly possess—
Even Sylvia when she got me, hated me

As long as there were New England coeds—
And wanton sluts in the poetry readings

She couldn’t be sure I was totally hers—
Especially when Assia put the make on me

I was a Killer poet, killing both of them—
Gassing them both to death to shut 'em up

Assia the accomplice who helped me shove—
Sylvia's unconscious body deep into her oven

Women were like hunted trapped rabbits—
Caught in my strong hands, choked to death

The British Empire always ruled by Killers—
A Killer Poet Laureate is just what they need!!!

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