Farewell, Matt

[Achebe]

Now thou and I
are old in enmity,
which is to say 
we're practically friends.
When you went away across the waters
tailbone curled between your trotters
proving that pigs do fly,
I wondered if your brash young squire
would be worthy of my
indulgent ire
now I know he's just a runt.
So farewell, Matt, my almost friend,
you can foresee how this poem will end:
me calling you a cunt.