Thursday, January 15, 2015


“Of course I knew Alf Tennyson,” said the very old muse,
“I knew everyone. Never did much work with him;
Just once in a ways. His regular muse was a big woman
And wore steel-toe boots. He was six foot or so
But she could have put him in her pocket and had room
For Cat Rossetti and Martin Tupper, with Algy Swinburne
Swinging from that gold-plated watch chain of hers.
I remember Alf and his muse smoking awful cheroots
That smelled like someone was burning rope. He kept hoping
She’d bring him something soft – something with birds
Or fuzzy kittens gambling in a sunshiny meadow but she
Was never much one for kittens. ‘Alfy,’ she would say --
Though he time and again asked her not to call him Alfy –
‘I have something extra good for you here today:
Another poem about your pal Arthur Henry Hallam!’
Alf would sigh; “And how many is that now?
A hundred and six, I think?’ But he knew he was stuck
And did as he’d been told; she was never the sort
Who tolerated much backtalk. No more am I.”

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