with none of the later, bitter edge.
Cockney, a little.
In London town,
the faces you wrote
leer and gape and plead at my feet.
Once, high on Hungerford Bridge,
a stew and tangle of rags, sniffled by a dog, stood, spoke,
spat at the shadow I cast,
at the meagre shadow I cast in my time.
I heard the faraway bells of St Paul's as I ran.
Maestro. Monster. Mummy's Boy.
My Main Man.
I write you and I write you for five hard years.
I have an affair with a Thespian girl-
you would have approved-
then I snivel home to my wife.
The tone of this line, with its repetition of “I write you” suggests tedium and resentment. Authors often comment on the hard grind involved in writing, when inspiration must be followed by sheer hard work. 
 
 However, the fact that the speaker says “I write you” rather than “I write about you” is telling. The biographer could be creating his subject.  There is almost no separation between speaker and subject; the two writers have become one.
The Biographer