Larkin pitches for the London Rubber Company
Sex has begun! It’s 1963.
The future’s bright and I would make it brighter.
Books really are a load of crap. For me,
no calling can outshout the copywriter.
The endless slide to happiness will sing
of contraception and unbuttoned urges.
The wrangle now is with a rubber ring.
May appetite mock promises and churches.
Toss off a slogan: something droll and dirty,
like “Fuck yourselves. You want to. And you can.”
The game is quite unlosable. Too earthy?
Try “Condoms -- flush your scruples down the pan.”
Although I know I am uncherished,
my wallet hides two folded party hats
which, waggish but unbidden, latex perished,
will stay like that. Unlucky charms, perhaps.
If you have any
thoughts about this poem, Joe Crocker
would be pleased to hear them