To Tom Leonard, a Bayesian Boy.

 
(This poem references and quotes Tom Leonard's literary work which are on his website)

 Bayesian boy
 from cursed Devon
 while others are fiddling their will-ies
 he's 'heading' for heaven.
 Just don't call him professor
 it's too much pressure
 he prefers tommykins
 it helps him fit in
 with the babyish bayesians.

 A Plymothian
 who met me a country bumpkin
 fae Midlothian.
 He's often mistaken for a tanned santa.
 and  once I saw him in panto.
 Till he was taken off by the cops
 for failing to clear the snow!

  Known to the drycleaners  as Mr Leo-pard
 he's got a website
 and he'll give you his card.
 He does Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, birthdays
 he even does requests.
 Ask nicely enough
 and he'll show you some antler shaped breasts!

 Tom Leonard
 the less famous poetic one
 likes his sausage in a bun
 loves his posteriors
  and has a prior
 for his jokes are AWWWWLFULLY dire.

 He's a fighter for Psychiatric rights
 one day will see his name in lights.
 Come see him in a pink tutu
 this and other ,'lovely delights'....

  As ginks, finks, minks and shrinks he fights
  susses out "rings within rings"
 but ever an innuendo present
 "I fink he means other fings!"
 Notorious far and wide for his euphemism
 I often wonder if he's the co-author of
"101 other words for Jism".


 Bayesian Boy  tommy snores at the theatre
 as the permed Morningside fogies
 whisper "bless".
 But let him loose on the computer,
 and he's LORD AND MASTER
  of chess!

 Believer in Christian Creeds.
 like a poppy
 he has well and truly  sown his seeds.
 A Shouter of "strawberries"
 to horny young men
 he makes his merries
 swallowing plums and
 popping cherries!

 Historian of Peter and Mary Tavy    
 he ladles information on
 thick and fast
 like a very runny gravy.
 With his 'dark knight' and his best friend in all existence
 flanking him on his right
 he hands them a spade
 and debunks health statistics
 that have more bark than bite.

 While he has a penchant for penning incestuous tales
 and  adventures with horny women and males
 but he in actual fact prefers homeless snails.
  At the new town bar,
 the muses gave him a loquacious  libation
 a savant's mind and fingertips full
 of inspiration.
 A poet of some repute
 mair manky manifold mental-ness
 ye've never heard, thirs nae dispute.
 He reads his joyful poem
 about how friendship is a garden
 at the zenith of it's beauty
 emphasises the point
 with a parp
 the crowd asks "what was that", "beg your pardon"
 Crushes the 'royal' stewarts like an ant
 and ponders often, why do they rave and rant cant?..
 Nae time for pedo-twots,  pimply-pontiffs or the occasional
  uninspired pedant.
 Composer of the Mayflower Rose
 and ' the blue praying mantis'
 -surely a  creature straight from Atlantis.
 He's the challenger of de Finetti's paradox
 if he wasn't at home, writing novels
 he'd be out there 'darning socks'.

 And rue the forces which have come upon him.
 Robbing Peter to give to Paul
 It makes no fucking sense at all!
 so go on, let the penny drop
 when it's the pits.
 He has no time for boars
 who are bogged down
 with their aristocratic tits.
 He snoozes and squints in his chair
 but really, I mean really
 no one needs to see a Bayesian poet
 at home in his underwear.
 Unless that's your thing
 of course, well then that's fair.
 But don't you ever
 encourage him
 in it
 DON'T YOU DARE!!!