Now Cupid’s no hero to husbands and wives:
His love of the bottle has wrecked many lives.
You might still believe he’s a chubby-cheeked youth;
Well listen up, stupid – for this is the truth.
He’s known round the bars from Milan to Torino.
For 3000 years he has been on the vino.
He hums to high heaven. More so than a skunk.
He’d rather not wash cos he’d rather get drunk.
He drinks so much vino it seeps from his pores.
His skin’s gone all crusty and covered with sores.
That once curly mop on the top of his head
Is balding and patchy and flaky and red.
He’s lazy, a drunkard, a slovenly blob,
It’s clear he’s really not up to the job.
He gifts love and lust with his bow and his arrow,
But after twelve pints he can’t shoot straight and narrow.
D’you think that your love life has oft gone askew?
The chance is that Cupid has ‘happened’ to you.
Ever woke in some bed, eyes red and all blinking,
Your conquest and hangover, equally stinking,
You turn to yourself and say, what was I thinking?
Well now you know why: it’s cos Cupid’s been drinking.
Half the world’s problems would soon go away,
If Cupid was sober for even one day.
But Cupid thinks drinking’s a form of fine art,
Which means that he’s normally pissed as a fart.
Take Billy. He found himself filled with desire
Cos Cupid was plastered and failed to expire
His arrow on target. It soon did transpire
That Billy was shopping. He’d shagged a papaya.
Or then there’s the tale of poor David, of course,
Who after one evening of fine intercourse
Discovered he’d actually buggered a horse.
And all because Cupid had been on the sauce.
Now these two strange tales might seem notably bad.
(Poor Billy’s wife Jane’s understandably mad.)
One horrible tale, though, got right out of hand
Its consequence spiralling all through the land:
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A few years ago, the elegant Venus
(a top-ranking god of the deity genus)
Had asked her son Cupid to do a good deed:
Make sure that two humans get on it and breed.
She said: ‘It’s important they couple, don’t cease –
Their offspring will bring about lasting world peace.’
So Cupid said, '’Course, Mum, I’ll go the whole hog
Right after I’ve finished this hair of the dog.’
But Venus said, '’CUPID! You can’t mess this up;
No “incident”, “problem”, nor single hiccup.’
And Cupid said, ‘K mum,’ and went to get ready
With two cups of absinthe to hold his nerves steady.
He went on his mission, now quite off his face,
To bring about peace for the whole human race.
But then he ran into, his arms out agape,
His dear friend Bacchus, the god of the grape.
Said Bacchus: ‘Yo Cupid! Compadre! You cool?
Let’s go for a pint and a quick game of pool.’
Thought Cupid: ‘Mum’s anger. It might be overt.
But then again, one little drink couldn’t hurt.’
Now Cupid had never just had one and stopped.
He’d start up a tab and then drink till he dropped.
‘By Juno,’ said Bacchus, on Cupid’s eighth drink,
‘I think you’ve a problem, you might need a shrink.’
‘Oh shush, shilly Baccush,’ slurred Cupid, the berk,
‘Letsh have some more drinksh and then I’m off to work.’
So Bacchus gave Cupid a dirty great frown;
The god of the grape couldn’t let the side down.
He said, ‘OK padre, I won’t be outdone.’
Then lined up ten whiskies and did them in one.
They stayed in the pub and had six bottles neat,
Till Cupid went stumbling out on the street.
Now picture the scene. Poor Oli is late.
He’s off to a new pop-up bar for a date.
Poor Kate who he’s meeting is bored of the wait.
It’s twenty-to-nine; she’s been waiting since eight.
Now Oli’s a catch. He’s got really great hair.
He manages Médecins sans Frontières
And Kate is a stunner, she’s blue-eyed and fair,
Most men can’t approach her, they dribble and stare.
She’s sharp and intelligent. Full of conviction.
She works as a teacher and writes YA fiction.
Now if they elope, have a daughter or son,
The child will grow up to unite us as one.
This kid will be peerless, caring and fun.
Beyoncé and Gandhi all rolled into one.
But Oli is rushing. He passes a door
And finds himself spread out all over the floor.
He picks himself up. The floor is quite damp.
And that’s when he sees he fell over a tramp.
‘Hey are you OK there?’ says Oli. (Nice guy.)
His streetside compatriot gives him the eye.
,’ says the tramp. ‘Shtay here and shit
I’m not far off shober, letsh go in a bit.’
So Oli bends down. He’s really not pleased.
The tramp is quite clearly drunk and diseased.
He says to the tramp, as nice as can be,
‘I’m late for a date, mate, look, take 50p.’
He goes in his pocket and offers the money,
The tramp though just hiccups and looks at him funny.
He says to young Oli, quite out of the blue,
‘Hey not sho fasht Bushter, here’sh shomething for you.’
Poor Oli is shocked. Doesn’t know what to do.
The tramp stabbed an arrow right into his shoe.
‘You bastard, you stabbed me,’ says Oli while hopping.
The tramp says, ‘You might need a shponge, that needsh mopping.’
Now Oli’s in pain. He’s quietly weeping.
He looks at the tramp. He’s curled up and sleeping.
But all of a sudden the pain goes away,
And Oli is fine and his foot feels OK.
Cos there on the opposite side of the street,
Is someone that Oli would quite like to meet.
It’s Jessica Davies. But unknown to Oli,
This girl is an ignorant bigoted wally.
She once wrote an essay on all of the ways
That Britain is broken. It’s cos of the gays.
She might be an arrogant, difficult cow
But Oli is smitten. He must have her now.
‘By golly,’ says Oli. ‘My willy has grown.
She’s got the best tits that the world’s ever known.
I’m so sure of this that I swear on my life –
I’d have to be mad not to make her my wife.’
He crosses the street. Makes a quick introduction.
And conjures an elegant, charming seduction.
A cupid-inspired complete lack of scrutiny.
Not even his testicles exercise mutiny.
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And what of young Kate? She’s still at the bar
When Django looks over at her from afar.
Though trying his best to look cool and bourgeois
He lets himself down with his Stella Artois.
He shampoos his beard. He wears skinny jeans.
If ever he’d vote it would be for the Greens.
He rolls his own smokes. He’s your typical hipster.
When not making choons he’s a part-time barista.
He goes and says hi. And Kate says hi back.
They stay there till two and discuss Kerouac.
Well Django and Kate ended up getting wed.
And Oli and Jessica still share a bed.
Both Oli and Kate found new partners instead,
And all because Cupid’s not right in the head.
So what’s wrong with this? Both couples are happy.
(Though Oli finds Jessica often quite snappy.)
Well things aren’t OK. It’s all a mirage.
Cos Oli and Jess’ domestic menage
Has ended up being a wrecked fuselage.
Their baby grew up to be NIGEL FARAGE.
The man who is known for not having the guts
To sack Godfrey Bloom when he called women ‘sluts’.
His answer to problems is more of the same:
It’s immigrants, gays and the poor who’re to blame.
Go press him on TTIP, he’ll audibly groan.
He’ll frack up your garden but won’t touch his own.
He’ll privatise prisons, deregulate guns –
The chance is quite fair that he’d execute nuns.
Before he joined UKIP he worked as a banker;
It’s not hard to tell he’s a corporate….
Now if you find that you’re in any small doubt
On how this calamity all came about
Remember that Cupid’s a drunken old trout.
Let’s secretly hope that he’ll one day get gout.
And next time you see him, he might look quite merry,
Because he has probably been on the sherry.
He’ll say it’s your round. But don’t be afraid.
Make sure you’re not part of a dumb escapade –
Just buy him a juice or a cold lemonade.
Cos otherwise, matey, you aint getting laid.
is studying for a PhD in Creative writing at Cardiff University. This poem was written for and performed at Heartspoken, a love-themed night of live literature and spoken word, on 23 November at the Kuku Club, Cardiff.
Read Joâo Morais' 'Oedipus Rex'
, the pair to 'Not OK Cupid'.
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