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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