How many dragons did you kill today?

by Giles Booth, (then) aged 19 and three quarters

How many dragons did you kill today?

‘How many dragons did you kill today?’
Asks Philip Larkin in his turtle-like way,
Scarcely believing he’s worse off than most
Imprisoned by toads and his library post.

But last night I dreamt of his over-grown snakes,
Of clubbing his dragons. I reckon that makes
Six before breakfast, though it might soon be more;
Number seven lies bleeding on his office floor.

I’m researching an essay, but time after time
I’m totally flummoxed by the opaque last line.
His curriculum vitae might yield a clue
As to which of these poems is explicitly true.

Wellington, Leicester, Belfast and Hull,
How could he be so incredibly dull?
I can’t understand what he’s trying to prove,
Getting nearer the scrap-heap with every move.

He’s been out of tune with the Modernist sages
Since, expecting a Pevsner, he scoured the pages
With thick specs and torchlight under the bedding
Of Ezra Pound’s guide book, the one about Reading.

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