“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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