Bob Newman - A Shameful Admission

I must confess - and you will be appalled -
Although I'm almost sure I used to know,
I can't remember what this form is called.
 
Although for several days I have stonewalled,
I cannot keep it up - in half a mo,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
I’ve tried to change the subject, stalled and stalled,
At last I whisper, pianissimo,
“I can't remember what this form is called”.
 
A sonnet's fourteen lines, I soon recalled,
But after that, no further thoughts would flow,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
Sestinas, odes, ballades, have all been scrawled
In thousands; this is none of those, although
I can't remember what this form is called.

And if before the Bench I'm sternly hauled
I couldn't swear this isn't a rondeau,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
My self-esteem has been severely mauled.
An elegy? A limerick? Oh no,
I can't remember what this form is called.
 
Long hours through my memory I've trawled.
I can't rule out a virelai nouveau,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
I've sat with head in hands, and caterwauled.
You must think me a bird-brained so-and-so.
I can't remember what this form is called.
 
In chairs of poetry I've been installed.
Now, though in coming clean I have been slow,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
From every club I’m bound to be blackballed.
On edge, I twiddle my mustachio.
I can't remember what this form is called.

So out from neath my slimy stone I’ve crawled
And now it’s time: pro bono publico,
I must confess - and you will be appalled.

The joy of writing poetry has palled;
My brain has turned to soggy marshmallow.
I can't remember what this form is called.

My claims to bardic fame must be mothballed
Before amnesia deals a fatal blow.
I must confess - and you will be appalled.

O how I wish some kindly know-it-all’d
Pipe up and put an end to all my woe!
I can't remember what this form is called.
 
So that your harshest comments are forestalled,
In transatlantic terms, I will "eat crow":
I must confess - and you will be appalled.
 
Your laughter, I expect, will be ribald,
And puncture all my braggadocio.
I can't remember what this form is called.

I hope that by tonight we won’t have brawled -
Mind, rucking is a strong string to my bow,
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

Though long and loud I’ve keened and moaned and yawled,
Invoked demonic powers from below,
I can’t remember what this form is called.

I shall be booed, and jeered at, and catcalled;
The shame may well reduce my libido.
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

My reputation must be overhauled.
Now, they won’t want me on the radio!
I can’t remember what this form is called.
 
No halfway decent poetry bookstall’d
Stock anything by one who whimpered so:
“I must confess, and you will be appalled.”

I dreamt of dwellings grand and marble halled,
But now I’m shattered; no chance of chateaux.
I can’t remember what this form is called!
 
A footballer who’s cynically handballed
Needs no red card to know he has to go;
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

But for this lapse, perhaps Sir Peter Hall’d
Have read my manuscript, and staged the show.
I can’t remember what this form is called.

So like a bowler who has been no-balled,
My cheeks are with embarrassment aglow
I must confess - and you will be appalled.

At sea, if I owned up I’d be keelhauled
Three times around the archipelago.
I can't remember what this form is called!

It's such a fall from grace! I'm sure St Paul'd
Have written an epistle long ago:
"I must confess - and you will be appalled."

With envy I am turning emerald
For some of you have what I lack: you know.
I can't remember what this form is called.

Just as the leader of the “western warld”
Came clean (at length) about fellatio,
I must confess, and you will be appalled.
 
I feel such pain; it’s like a burn or scald.
I’ll go to earth, and live incognito.
I can’t remember what this form is called.

I think for my new home maybe Porthcawl’d
Suffice. (D’you think I’m nuts? Pistachio?)
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

I’ll even take a look at Cumbernauld
Or find a desert island, like Defoe.
I can’t remember what this form is called.

Sou’-westered, wellied, goggled, overalled,
I’m ready for the custard pies you’ll throw.
I must confess, and you will be appalled.
 
The stormy weather’s gathered, loomed and squalled;
I will survive, though with a bruised ego.
I can’t remember what this form is called.
 
A sadder spectacle was ne’er eyeballed
Than me. I hope I sound simpatico.
I must confess – and you will be appalled.

“You must help me! My memory’s engine’s stalled!”
I told the Citizens’ Advice Bureau.
“I can’t remember what this form is called.”

I’m stoical, like that man Hammarskjöld,
For when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.
I must confess, and you will be appalled.
 
Since from my pedestal I’m de-installed,
Maybe I’ll emigrate to Borneo.
I can’t remember what this form is called.
 
I stand before you spouting reams of bald-
erdash - That’s what it is, I’m sure you know.
I must confess, and you will be appalled.
 
As I declaim this poetry, so-called,
I’m stricken with a queasy vertigo:
I can’t remember what this form is called!
 
A rhyme I haven’t used is “Archibald”,
But few are left in my portfolio,
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

If in the USA, I would have drawled
About this “Iambgate scenario”:
I can’t remember what this form is called.

 The problem started small, and then snowballed.
I lack the sang froid of an eskimo;
I must confess, and you will be appalled.

I’ve raised the stakes, and then been overcalled.
I feel outgunned; it’s like the Alamo.
I can’t remember what this form is called.

You sit there, and pretend to be enthralled;
My nose grows longer, like Pinocchio.
I must confess - and you will be appalled.

Acquaintance with its name has grown too auld;
More thoroughly forgot it seems to grow.
I can't remember what this form is called.

When I am old and grey, infirm, be-shawled,
I'll tell my nurse, "There's something you should know.
I must confess - and you will be appalled!"
 
In Hell, when on the torture rack I'm sprawled,
I'll have to tell Beelzebub and Co,
"I can't remember what this form is called."

I've racked my brains, and made myself go bald.
The strain has damn near made my marbles go!
I must confess - and you will be appalled –
I can't remember what this form is called.