October 2016 - Robert Ritchie

Robert Ritchie

Robert Ritchie has run Stirling Writers Group for over 20 years. He is an anagram of 'erotic rebirth'; confirmed paronomaniac; eschews doom gloom and tomb in his writing; fights the decline of the semi-colon; cares for his flock of soft-textile puffins; deprecates po-faced potted biogs; venerates Charles Dickens (not just because he is an anagram of Children's Cakes); and would like for his epitaph: 'he had a felicity with words'.


On being turned up in her (or his) nest with the plough, November 1785

Well, you’re wrong, Mister Burns –

you patronising anthropomorphising bastard

of a bastard-creating bard,

hypocritical lickspittler to the aristocracy;

of moral mien you’re less than squeaky clean,

you jumped-up upstart plough person

with your synthetic sympathy

and pathetic prosody,

damned mouse de-nesting fuddled furrower,

– there was no panic, there

in what you cutely call,

in your couthie dumbed-down demotic,


You presume to know I’m miss, or mistress, mouse

and not, for not so sentimentalising,

a macho mouse,  

a rude crude brute of a murine,

like you

of a man.

My mouse-spouse and mouse kins, abode unfixed,

pretext for your meretricious phrase,

my mouse house scheme gang aft agley.

You do not see me cowrin, Mister Burns:

I rant and roar with rodent rage,

stack acrid execration on your pudding head,

and pray, if there’s a power above us all,


time’s fatal scythe on you shall fall.