CALLING

Alf Tennyson's height made it hard to hide
His muse would find him crouching
Beneath a privet hedge or sitting
Among the branches of immemorial elms
Swearing at the bees in a fierce whisper.
"Enough of this, Tennyson!" his muse would call,
"We have a contract! 133 cantos, no more or less
In iambic tetrameter. Rhymes to be ABBA.
I have a new idea for a title. How does
'Artie Hallam -- My Dead BFF’ sound to you?"
"I like In Memoriam A.H.H. better." "As you will;
Now, out of the vegetation, man!
Cantos can't write themselves you know."