A correspondant, a noted crime writer, contacted me today re. my Sylvia Plath clerihew, which I recited to him a few years ago, in a taxi up to Lumb Bank after a few beers in Hebden Bridge, and with which I’ve managed to cause a great deal of upset over the years. I sent him the text, after some umm-ing and aah-ing, because I couldn’t work out how to write a lisp. So it’s the first time I’ve written it down, and I’m open to ideas which might improve the written version.
The text reads
Had a taytht for gath.
Thsee couldn’t thtop thmelling
Her Baby Belling.
Fans of the Belling range of cookers will write and point out that they don’t make a gas version of the legandary ‘Baby’. I know, and I’m sorry.