Larkin said we think
On death when drink
And friends are not around,
As there is nothing To distract
Us from the profound
Truth that you and I
Will die.
As I sit in this pub, alone
Drinking coffee
I reach for my phone
But Larkin stops me
Dead, and, with a clear head
I see
The truth the poet did see.
Last night, I had a dream in which I had agreed to work in my local pub. Being blind, this would, no doubt have been a very interesting experience for me and the customers of that esteemed establishment.
My peculiar dream led to the composition of the below rhyme.
—
When a blind man whose name is Grub
Got a job in his local pub,
Those wanting brandy
Got lemonade shandy,
But the grub, it was really quite good!
There was a young lady named Samantha
Who bought a baby pet panther.
The creature was cute
And played the flute,
And Samantha, she was a dancer.
—
There was a young lady named Samantha
Who purchased a baby pet panther.
The creature played on the flute,,
But I never reached the root,
Of what happened to that Samantha . . .
—
A young lady whose name is Samantha
Works as an erotic dancer.
When the men bother her
She gives them a glare,
So I keep well away from Samantha!
In a dream I saw
Plastic high-heels on the floor
Of a room who’s door
Stood half-open.
Something must have been spoken
For I was invited, and recall
The monotonous rise and fall,
Going nowhere
With her,
And those cheap
Plastic shoes, which keep
Me from sleep.
When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I answered him with a snore.
—
When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I said, “close the study door”.
A young man whose name is Gus
Went out with a succubus.
He says she was pretty
And came from his city,
But the rest he refuses to discuss.
My aristocratic friend, who likes to doodle
Maintains ideas that are almost feudal,
And lives on a great estate
With my young mistress called Kate,
And an anarchistic, fat old poodle!
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
If a man where to say
That in some way
A former colony was better off under British rule,
Many would call him a blithering fool,
An imperialist, or worse.
I will only say
In this ineffective verse
That its all going wrong
For Hong Kong.
K Morris - Poet 