Friday, September 5, 2014


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.

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