Slap on the wrist

Mark Patterson, time-served housebreaker:
I heard you avoided a custodial sentence,
because you're a "promising poet".
Well all I can say is
you'd better be a damn good one.
You'd better be better than me.
Your texts better scatter the page with
more than a smattering of
powerhouse images
senses
smell, taste, sound, touch
the works.
And feelings -
I hope your poems touch on the pain
of a decent honest working man
finding all the stuff
he worked odious hours to afford
tossed like scraps in an abbatoir
and missing
to feed the pet monkey on your back.

And I truly hope,
in the poem that is your life
you manage the old transgression of character trick.
'Cause next time, pal,
the judge'll want more than a weepy verse.
Alliteration
and vowels like violin bows
playing heart strings.
But worry not; it didn't send Oscar wild.
No distractions. You can take it serious.
Doing porridge, there's plenty of Larkin around
in the prison library. Do-gooders do you good,
discover your inner depth.
Old lags to Duffy you up.
("You and whose Armitage!")
Don't make it worse, Mark, have you no Seamus?
You won't be up lit creek without a Padel.
Just the experience you crave
as a writer.
And what's more
your education is all on me.

That's fine.
The old folks round your way
love me.