The one-time Booker Prize writer
Who
Astounded the world
With her insight into men
Her 
Brilliance
Was rewarded in cheques
Her name surpassed
That of Geoffrey Archer (?)
But
Once the gutter press snipes
Snipped
Away at the non de plume
Penrose astounded
All even more
For despite
Cecily’s championing
The feminist ilk,
Thus laying
The foundations
For multi scandals – 
Cecily was undone.
The poison pen
Having once wrote
Eventually moved on
It spoke
Too often for safety.

Of Cecily
When the hounds 
Had a man found
As a female writer,
Somehow;
The ink had dried up
The secret exposed
Sapped the spirit
Cecily (nay Cecil)
Made a hasty split
Not wanting
To wait for the swords
To cut off his head.
Cecily rose
From her desk
Shot the creative brain
Against the oak-panelled wall.

The last scene
In the life of Cecily Penrose
Who’d wrote
As though she was a prostitute
In the 1930’s Manchester,
Who’d spoke 
Of misfortunes
In marriage, childhood relationships.
Took the knives 
Out of his back;
Cecily’s wife
Led a quiet life
Inside a padded cell
Just outside West London.

written by Pete Wakeham