the last of sir Walter Raleigh's Loveletters

To my Dearest Amy Winehouse,
You know my name though I regret
We have never met.
I am Sir Walter Raleigh,
A man who hardly needs introduction
– But I will make an exception
In your case
my love.
I’m that hot shot ace from the 17th century.
Pointy bearded aficionado
from your textbooks in history,
I’m in all those a3 pictures with me
standing powerfully
upright,
Legs cocked in tight tights,
Showing off my rather knightly hosepipe.

Yes,
Sir Walter Raleigh.
Pauper?
Hardly.
Rather courtier to half of female society.
Romeo to many a dainty young lady,
daily debaucher of naughty girls dignity
Even rumoured to have nibbled on the virginity
Of the Queen
In your time my exploits would be popular in
Zoo or Nuts magazine

And I am writing to you from the year 1618
Because my dreams have been peppered with thoughts of you that aren’t too clean,
Amy Winehouse,
Your writing seems serene to me,
Amy Winehouse
As do your itchy barnet and tight white jeans,
Amy Winehouse

Oh, it seems so cruel to me that the centuries have been keeping us apart.
Making us walk these supremely different paths
And whilst I was a strike-buster, a bruiser,
an adornment of England’s Golden Age
You sing across the world a little worse for wear
next to a bucket on a stage

But we’re both bosses of our own pioneering ages
Amy Winehouse
And whilst I have waged war upon countries
and made discoveries with my sword
Your material has crossed boundaries and won countless awards

So what I don’t understand
My love
Is this recent uproar
About comparing your lyrics with mine
Alright, we’re from quite different times
And we’re on different sides of the political line
But we have so many similarities Amy.

Noted the public rate me as one of the great writers of the 17th Century
They make statues to me
Name roads after me
Even manufacture fairly average bikes to sell in Halfords after me
And the laying of my cloak over puddles for lady folk
has become a staple form of flattery
But not everyone knows that I was locked up
in the Tower of London for nearly twenty years.

I married a maid in waiting to her Majesty and
Hell hath no fury like a monarchy scorned
So I’ve been locked up for nearly 20 years till she died
Then I got a brief sojournement to sail about a bit
You know, do my Raleigh thing
Before I got put back in the tower for treachery against the King

Which I was innocent of but no-one was really listening.
And so once I’ve finished devoting myself to you,
I am popping off to get my head chopped off
Surrounded by the cheers of people who will later
name beers after me,
Whoopee.

Oh, forgive me,
There is nothing worse than a love letter that is all angsty
My point is that it’s the way people slate you that angers me,
Yet makes us so similar
I’m going to be murdered without the people shedding a single tear
And the irony is that The Daily Mail
are only wailing about the comparison of our material
because I’m dead as a doornail,

What a privelege that they find so much in my work to admire.
Particularly when they’re descendents
wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire
Well I'm not retired
quite yet
so
fuck the Daily Mail,
Their type have existed before
Heads stuck up their
past that I will never have respect for
I’m sure that they dissected your work without even hearing its sound
and they’ll keep hounding you with how us Dead Poets were more profound
But we can’t write much can we when we’re underneath the ground
So Amy Winehouse,
Beautiful amy winehouse,
I will always love you
because there are easy paths,
but like me you took the other way round.
Yours truthfully,
A bully,
Womaniser
And all-round cad
Sir Walter Raleigh
dead poet
Dead unpopular
dead glad