An Ode to Michael

I’ve been approached, to write this Ode, by Michael: he wants me to identify three traits of his. I told him, life is just a cycle of ups and downs. I cited one Matt Gaetz! “Don’t count on your intelligence,” I said: you’re bright alright, but that is where it ends.” “I need a friend to do this,” he admonished. “You have,” I pointed out to him, “no friends.” Internally, he’s clever: outside, dead. If anybody phones him, he’s astonished. “So tell them, girls mistake me for George Clooney!” No way. “No doubt,” I said, “You’re polyvalent. But as for looks, you’re nearer Mickey Rooney. Yet I’ll concede your literary talent.” He seemed appeased by this. “Brigitte Bardot would love the chance to glance upon my sonnets, and Sofia Loren says she’s read my plays.” “You live on leprechauns and Easter bonnets, you sad buffoon.” I truly told him so. “The nineteen fifties were your salad days.” “Those times are gone! Get with the modern world.” “I’ve got a brain, and I can write a bit: we need another quality unfurled.” “There’s no more in your favour. That is it!” We scratched our heads. We pondered. Nothing came. “I’ll put up money …” “Michael, you’re absurd. You couldn’t, if you tried, put up a tent.” The bribing-plan was stillborn. In a word, he hasn’t got a penny. All the same, there’s no-one would deny … the guy’s a gent.