Poetry

Tell me not, Sweet, [unclear: I'te] seen the light.
If I should seem to flee
My thirsty friends of Friday night.
The hills, and you, [unclear: Cherie].

But ghosts compel me more and more
To see you less and less;
To quit today for days of yore
And love for letterpress.

The man who sang and bellowed [unclear: skout]
When Beowulf got him drunk
Now lays an unguent to his soul
By making me a monk.

The kaka screams on Alpha yet
But cannot countervail
The harsh, imperious duel
Of Owl and Nightingale.

And Burns, the rantin, drouthy bard—
I might have hoped his benison:
But no, he drives me just as hard
As Thackeray or Tennyson.

To cram the classics wearily
In ill-digested dollops.
And shun your sweet society
To spend the night with Trollope's.

Indeed, the situation's such
As few will not deplore:
I could not love thee, Dear, so much.
Loved I not Honours more.