Alfred Lord Tennyson was tall
And smoked cigars. He swore
With enthusiasm. He’d recite Maud
Even when no one asked him
(Perhaps especially when no one asked him)
A lesser poet would not have dared
To wear hats so ancient and terrible.
On his deathbed he opened his eyes
(A peculiar shade of hazel they were)
To ask a visitor if she’d been taught
How to dance a sarabande.
He interrupted his death to rise
And make a slow demonstration.