Sunday, 21 October 2012


Wordsworth was a drippy sod,
With his lakes and daffodils;
Will Blake, he was a fantasist,
Dreaming dark satanic mills:
Byron thought his sister
Too hot not to pursue;
And Clare rewrote his poems
Having nought better to do.

But I don’t buy nothing from goblins,
And I’ve got no Vorpal blade;
Old Kublai Khan in Xanadu
I don’t care what he made:
The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Were sandy, old and fat,
So 19th Century poetry,
I don’t care much for that.

No comments:

Post a Comment