18 MAY 1985, Page 30

Poem

My voice has lost its Frank Sinatra feeling My trumpet imitations now sound flat, I have no moral feelings about stealing I eat and drink less yet I still grow fat.

The love I once gave gladly to my brother I find now hardly stretches to my dog, I don't suppose we really like each other There's not enough affection left to log.

Too many 'I's' too many `My's' so selfish They punctuate the rhythm pride has played, My outer surfaces rival the shellfish.

Hate lingers, 0, — I wish that love had stayed.

Cliff Ashby