/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.16560489]

What’s the most beautiful poem you’ve ever read? Post it ITT

[Anonymous No.16560492]

i'm not ready to publish it yet

[Anonymous No.16560505]

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out
- Nael

[Anonymous No.16560513]

>>16560489
Probably lycades or whatever by Milton. I read it on the bus on my way to work one morning and I remember tearing up.
I'm also a big fan of Friends Romans Countrymen

[Anonymous No.16560518]

>>16560489
"Untitled"
Someone asks me how many women I have
I really don’t know either
Yesterday a boy called me "Dad"
I don’t know who his mother is
- Zhang Zongchan

[Anonymous No.16560520]

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.
Joh Keats

[Anonymous No.16560526]

>>16560489
>>16559571

[Anonymous No.16560551]

海客談瀛洲, 煙濤微茫信難求。
越人語天姥, 雲霓明滅或可睹。
天姥連天向天橫, 勢拔五岳掩赤城。
天台四萬八千丈, 對此欲倒東南傾。

我欲因之夢吳越, 一夜飛渡鏡湖月。
月。照我影, 送我至剡溪。
謝公宿處今尚在, 淥水蕩漾清猴啼。
腳著謝公屐, 身登青云梯。
半壁見海日, 空中聞天雞。
千岩萬轉路不定, 迷花倚石忽已暝。
熊咆龍吟殷岩泉, 栗深林兮驚層巔。
云青青兮欲雨, 水澹澹兮生煙。
裂缺霹靂, 丘巒崩摧。
洞天石扇, 訇然中開。
青冥浩蕩不見底, 日月照耀金銀台。
霓為衣兮風為馬, 雲之君兮紛紛而來下。
虎鼓瑟兮鸞回車, 仙之人兮列如麻。

忽魂悸以魄動, 恍驚起而長嗟。
惟覺時之枕席, 失向來之煙霞。
世間行樂亦如此, 古來萬事東流水。

別君去兮何時還? 且放白鹿青崖間。
須行即騎訪名山。
安能摧眉折腰事權貴, 使我不得開心顏!

[Anonymous No.16560660]

>>16560489
There was a young man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear was a cunt I would fuck it."

[Anonymous No.16560681]

>>16560551
Jin chen fan jing,
Jan san, ji ruuu
Jin chen in a jan sin,
Jan sen jiru no dan gao ...

[Anonymous No.16560754]

In dunkler Kummer saß ein Mann
An schwarzbehängtem Tische,
Der prüfte grübelnd, dacht' und sann,
Wie er die Säfte mische.
Metall und Säure, Salz und Stein
Zersetzt er in Phiolen,
Verbindet, gießet aus und ein,
Stellt's über Eis und Kohlen.

Zusammenrafft er, was er kennt,
Und treibt's in düstrem Schweigen;
Das, was man eine Träne nennt,
Will er durch Kunst erzeugen;

Erzeugen eine Trän', – ein Naß,
So wohlfeil in dem Auge!
Er mischt und mengt ohn' Unterlaß,
Versucht's mit Dampf und Lauge.

Geschmolzner Demant scheint's ihm bald,
Bald Wasser im Kristalle;
Doch ist der Demant hart und kalt,
Der Tropf' erlischt im Falle.

Kein Feuer ist's, – der Funke brennt,
Die Tränen aber kühlen;
Es ist kein andres Element,
Kein Element kann fühlen.

Es ist nicht lebend, ist nicht tot,
Die Träne lebt im Werden,
Doch kaum, daß sie zur Schau sich bot,
So fällt sie tot zur Erden.

Sie ist ein Kind der Harmonie,
Ein Kind des Widerstrebens; –
Das ganze Reich der Alchimie
Durchforscht der Mann vergebens.

Da springt er auf von seinem Sitz
Und wandelt in das Freie,
Verschwört Erfindung, Kunst und Witz,
Und spürt Verdruß und Reue.

Doch wie er wandelt, wie er geht,
Da wird es eben Abend;
Sein lang' entbehrter Odem weht
Ums Haupt ihm mild und labend.

Die Sonne steigt hinab ins Meer,
Daß alle Wellen blitzen,
Und aus der Brandung ringsumher
Viel helle Tränen spritzen.

Die Blumen wiegen Blüt' und Blatt,
Wie voll geheimem Sehnen,
Und jedes Knospenäuglein hat
Viel hundert helle Tränen.

Und Menschen stehn und wandeln stumm
In wehmutheitrem Bangen,
Und schaun beseligt um und um,
Mit Tränen auf den Wangen. –

Da greift's wohl auch dem Mann ins Herz,
Wie er es nie empfunden,
Er fühlt sich wie vom bangen Schmerz
Erleichtert und entbunden.

Der Kehl' aus tiefster Brust, von da
Dem Antlitz, dem entglühten,
Von da den Augen tritt es nah,
Er kann es nicht verhüten. –

Es flimmt vor ihm, – er hält die Hand
Vors Auge, – Tränen sind es:
Was keine Kunst, kein Mühen fand,
Ein reicher Strom nun rinnt es.

Und neu geschaffen, inniglich
Fühlt er es, süßbeklommen:
Nicht machen läßt die Träne sich,
Von selber muß sie kommen.

[Anonymous No.16560790]

>>16560489

[Anonymous No.16561942]

Dowson apparently wrote love poetry to some dumb bar maid who thought he was making fun of her. This caused him to fall into alcoholism, and he died at 26 of consumption. I think that the little poetry he managed to write before dying was some of the most beautiful in the world though.

Cynara by Dowson,

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

[Anonymous No.16561961]

>>16560505
Overrated desu

[Anonymous No.16561982]

Wagie wagie get in cagie.
All day long you sweat and ragie. NEET is comfy.
NEET is cool.
NEET is free from work and school. Wagie trapped and wagie died.
NEET eats tendies, sauce, and fries.

[Anonymous No.16562035]

>>16561982
actually better and more thought provoking than 90% of modern poetry

[Anonymous No.16562042]

>>16560518
Zhang Zongchad

[Anonymous No.16562052]

I am not a poetry fan but I like two in particular, as a normie and sperg: the Aeneid is good: translating from the Latin directly made it very appreciable. The other is the poem used for the Croatian anthem (Australian but learnt a fair bit of it from grandparents). I like them both, but they just don't sound as good in English as they do in the original language.

[Anonymous No.16562255]

>>16560489
I thought for a second that OP's picture was Tom Scott (he always wears a red shirt), I viscerally hate this absolute faggot.

[Anonymous No.16562268]

>>16560551
Ching chong aiya fwoa dolla duck sauce

[Anonymous No.16563239]

>>16560489
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods."

[Anonymous No.16563265]

I like Ozymandias.

[Anonymous No.16563316]

i like li bai as this anon posted
>>16560551
i also like the wasteland

[Anonymous No.16563317]

>>16560489
the drunken boat

[Anonymous No.16563426]

>>16560489

I heard a fly buzz - when I died
The stillness in the room
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the Heaves of storm -

The Eyes around-- had rung them dry-
The breaths were gath'ring firm
For that last Onset-- when the King
Be witnessed-- in the room

I willed my keepsakes-- signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable-- and then it was
There interposed a fly

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz
Between the light and me
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see

They typography is not perfect-- I wrote it from memory. I don't think Emily Dickinson is one of the greats, but I do think this is one of the finest poems in the english language. What I like about it is the sparseness without being boring (something a certain nobel laureate couple learn from) in which it dwells in language but still is able to thrust you into your senses without the feeling of being mediated by the poet. Also, this one is unique in that the rhythm is more variable and effective unlike most of DIckinson's poems which are typically monotonous. What I find most effective in poetry is when a simple techniques reveal some pure vision without all the clutter.

[Anonymous No.16563460]

"Wop the cock on the face"

Wop wop wop wop
That's the sound of my cock
slapping on your mother's face
She's also Italian
(therein lies the cleverness)

-Me

[Anonymous No.16563494]

Too good for this thread. Get better friends anon

[Anonymous No.16563581]

>>16560551
>>16563316
Unfortunately I only know him by the Arthur Waley translations.

[Anonymous No.16563658]

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

[Anonymous No.16563707]

Take up the White Man's burden—
Send forth the best ye breed—
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.

Take up the White Man's burden—
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain.
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden—
The savage wars of peace—
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden—
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper—
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead!

Take up the White Man's burden—
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard—
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:—
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
Our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden—
Ye dare not stoop to less—
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden—
Have done with childish days—
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!

[Anonymous No.16563736]

There is no hard way where there is a simple heart,
Nor barrier for upright thoughts,
Nor whirlwind in the depth of the enlightened thought.
Where one is surrounded on every side by pleasing country,
There is nothing divided in him.
The likeness of that which is below is that which is above.
For everything is from above, and from below there is nothing,
But it is believed to be by those in whom there is no understanding.
Grace has been revealed for your salvation.
Believe and live and be saved.
Hallelujah.

[Anonymous No.16563857]

>>16560489

[Anonymous No.16563958]

>>16562042
“Praying For Rain”
The sky god is also named Zhang
Why does he make life hard for me
If it doesn’t rain in three days
I’ll demolish your temple
Then I’ll have cannons bombard your mom

[Anonymous No.16564116]

>>16560489
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Too long to post the whole thing, but the line
>I do not think that they will sing to me.
gets me every time.

[Anonymous No.16564130]

Always to me beloved was this lonely hillside
And the hedgerow creeping over and always hiding
The distances, the horizon's furthest reaches.
But as I sit and gaze, there is an endless
Space still beyond, there is a more than mortal
Silence spread out to the last depth of peace,
Which in my thought I shape until my heart
Scarcely can hide a fear. And as the wind
Comes through the copses sighing to my ears,
The infinite silence and the passing voice
I must compare: remembering the seasons,
Quiet in dead eternity, and the present,
Living and sounding still. And into this
Immensity my thought sinks ever drowning,
And it is sweet to shipwreck in such a sea.

Giacomo Leopardi

[Anonymous No.16564148]

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

[Anonymous No.16564365]

>>16560489
On giving by Kahlil Gibran (the prophet).
But really the entire book is one long beautiful poem

[Anonymous No.16564439]

Where, like a pillow on a bed
A pregnant bank swell’d up to rest
The violet’s reclining head,
Sat we two, one another’s best;


Our hands were firmly cemented
With a fast balm, which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string;

So to’ intergraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.

As ’twixt two equal armies fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls (which to advance their state
Were gone out) hung ’twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refin’d
That he soul’s language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,

He (though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take
And part far purer than he came.


This ecstasy doth unperplex,
We said, and tell us what we love;
We see by this it was not sex,
We see we saw not what did move;

But as all several souls contain
Mixture of things, they know not what,
Love these mix’d souls doth mix again
And makes both one, each this and that.

A single violet transplant,
The strength, the colour, and the size,
(All which before was poor and scant)
Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so
Interinanimates two souls,
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,
Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know
Of what we are compos’d and made,
For th’ atomies of which we grow
Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But O alas, so long, so far,
Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours, though they are not we; we are
The intelligences, they the spheres.


We owe them thanks, because they thus
Did us, to us, at first convey,
Yielded their senses’ force to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven’s influence works not so,
But that it first imprints the air;
So soul into the soul may flow,
Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like souls as it can,
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot which makes us man,

So must pure lovers’ souls descend
T’ affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love reveal’d may look;
Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change, when we’are to bodies gone.

>pic related

[Anonymous No.16564812]

>>16560660
Big based

[Anonymous No.16564850]

>>16562035
90% of all poetry ever written has been bad. This idea that the past was somehow populated only by the greats is ridiculous, and not only that it is one of the most repeated phrases throughout history. Everybody thinks contemporary art is horrible.

[Anonymous No.16564891]

>>16560489
Wlazł kotek na płotek i mruga,
ładna to piosenka niedługa.
Nie długa, nie krótka, lecz w sam raz.
Zaśpiewaj koteczku jeszcze raz.

[Anonymous No.16564904]

>>16560489
>Prithee, m'Lady, might I throw my gaze upon your rumpscuttle?
>Yes, my dear, inch those court appearance trousers down to revel thy magnificent can
>Oh my indeed
>On first glimpse, mine heart leaps in rapture
>What is that over there, schnuckums?
>*Teleports behind you*
>Alas, I am closer, and with bottoms-bared you are vulnerable to my stealth attack
>*Crouches down at lightning speed*
>Why, greetings, fair arse. Might I withdraw a whiff?
>A gentleman cannot help but notice the arresting nature your curvature sports
>You are an arse that began its journey in full rosiness and pert quality
>However, blessed buttocks, like a daffodil that has been ravaged by slugs, you are now an arse that sags in a permanent frown, your crack housing a dark-grey fartdriller, permanently pungent
>The hands of the clock have not been kind, dearest arse, however you must now be ready for my hands, which I assure you.. will be... most kind...
>*Playful chortle*
>That's it, reveal yourself to me
>*Wedges buttockflaps apart, slowly, as the clagnut speckled hairs pull on each other and eventually snap apart, letting out a strong scent of rotting chicken and stale piss*
>*SNIFF*
>You did not disappoint me, my lower-class lovebug. It is a powerful aroma.. Thou hast revealed Thy favors and Thy bounties
>*SNIFF*
>Like the first guft of wind as you open a packet of sliced ham!
>Come on lass, you know what I require
>SQUEEEELDGE BOOOOOOOOOR BITOW POW POW BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP BRAP BRAP BROOOOOOOOARRRRRRRRRRRRQUUUOP

[Anonymous No.16564990]

Certified freak
7 days a week

[Anonymous No.16565451]

>>16560489
Once by the Pacific

The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the light was spoken.
-Robert Frost

[Anonymous No.16565486]

St. Thomas Aquinas
By Charles Simic

I left parts of myself everywhere
The way absent-minded people leave
Gloves and umbrellas
Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck.

I was on a park bench asleep.
It was like the Art of Ancient Egypt.
I didn't wish to bestir myself.
I made my long shadow take the evening train.

"We give death to a child when we give it a doll,"
Said the woman who had read Djuna Barnes.
We whispered all night. She had traveled to darkest Africa.
She had many stories to tell about the jungle.

I was already in New York looking for work.
It was raining as in the days of Noah.
I stood in many doorways of that great city.
Once I asked a man in a tuxedo for a cigarette.
He gave me a frightened look and stepped out into the rain.

Since "man naturally desires happiness"
According to St. Thomas Aquinas,
Who gave irrefutable proof of God's existence and purpose,
I loaded trucks in the Garment Center.
A black man and I stole a woman's red dress.
It was of silk; it shimmered.

Upon a gloomy night with all our loving ardors on fire,
We carried it down the long empty avenue,
Each holding one sleeve.
The heat was intolerable causing many terrifying human faces
To come out of hiding.

In the Public Library Reading Room
There was a single ceiling fan barely turning.
I had the travels of Herman Melville to serve me as a pillow.
I was on a ghost ship with its sails fully raised.
I could see no land anywhere.
The sea and its monsters could not cool me.

I followed a saintly looking nurse into a doctor's office.
We edged past people with eyes and ears bandaged.
"I am a medieval philosopher in exile,"
I explained to my landlady that night.
And, truly, I no longer looked like myself.
I wore glasses with a nasty spider crack over one eye.

I stayed in the movies all day long.
A woman on the screen walked through a bombed city
Again and again. She wore army boots.
Her legs were long and bare. It was cold wherever she was.
She had her back turned to me, but I was in love with her.
I expected to find wartime Europe at the exit.

It wasn't even snowing! Everyone I met
Wore a part of my destiny like a carnival mask.
"I'm Bartleby the Scrivener," I told the Italian waiter.
"Me, too" he replied.
And I could see nothing but overflowing ashtrays
The human-faced flies were busy examining.

[Anonymous No.16566772]

The Talking Oak
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/lord_alfred_tennyson/poems/11584.html

[Anonymous No.16567087]

>>16560790
Kek is that American psycho?

[Anonymous No.16567435]

>>16562255
what's wrong with Tom Scott

[Anonymous No.16567443]

>>16560790
TOP KEK, I love American Psycho so much

[Anonymous No.16567458]

>>16563239
epic

[Anonymous No.16567520]

>>16563707
>Take up the White Man's burden—
>And reap his old reward:
>The blame of those ye better,
>The hate of those ye guard—
>The cry of hosts ye humour
>(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:—
>"Why brought ye us from bondage,
>Our loved Egyptian night?"
Kino, pure and simple. It’s more relevant now than ever

[Anonymous No.16567533]

It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late,
With long arrears to make good,
When the Saxon began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy -- willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the Saxon began to hate.

Their voices were even and low.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd.
It was not taught by the state.
No man spoke it aloud
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not suddently bred.
It will not swiftly abate.
Through the chilled years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the Saxon began to hate.

[Anonymous No.16567539]

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

[Anonymous No.16567944]

>>16560489
Moby Dick, or, the Whale

[Anonymous No.16568501]

>>16567944
Based and seconded

[Anonymous No.16568568]

>>16561961
Shut up fag

[Anonymous No.16568775]

Listen,you morons great and small
to the tale of an intellectuall
(and if you don’t profit by his career
don’t ever say Hoover gave nobody beer).
‘Tis frequently stated out where he was born
that a rose is as weak as its shortest thorn:
they spit like quarters and sleep in their boots
and anyone dies when somebody shoots
and the sheriff arrives after everyone’s went;
which isn’t,perhaps,an environment
where you would(and I should)expect to find
overwhelming devotion to things of the mind.
But when it rains chickens we’ll all catch larks
--to borrow a phrase from Karl the Marks.
As a child he was puny;shrank from noise
hated the girls and mistrusted the boise,
didn’t like whiskey, learned to spell
and generally seemed to be going to hell;
so his parents,encouraged by desperation,
gave him a classical education
(and went to sleep in their boots again
out in the land where women are main).
You know the rest:a critic of note,
a serious thinker,a lyrical pote,
lectured on Art from west to east
--did sass-seyeity fall for it? Cheast!
if a dowager balked at our hero’s verse
he’d knock her cold with a page from Jerse;
why,he used to say to his friends,he used
“for getting a debutante give me Prused”
and many’s the heiress who’s up and swooned
after one canto by Ezra Pooned
(or--to borrow a cadence from Karl the Marx--
a biting chipmunk never barx.)
But every bathtub will have its gin
and one man’s sister’s another man’s sin
and a hand in the bush is a stitch in time
and Aint It All A Bloody Shime
and he suffered a fate which is worse than death
and I don’t allude to unpleasant breath.
Our blooming hero awoke,one day,
to find he had nothing whatever to say:
which I might interpret(just for fun)
as meaning the es of a be was dun
and I mightn’t think(and you mightn’t,too)
that a Five Year Plan’s worth a Gay Pay Oo
and both of us might irretrievably pause
ere believing that Stalin is Santa Clause:
which happily proves that neither of us
is really an intellectual cus.
For what did our intellectual do,
when he found himself so empty and blo?
he pondered a while and he said,said he
“It’s the social system,it isn’t me!
Not I am a fake,but America’s phoney!
Not I am no artist,but Art’s bologney!
Or--briefly to paraphrase Karl the Marx--
‘The first law of nature is,trees will be parx.”’
Now all of you morons of sundry classes
(who read the Times and who buy the Masses)
if you don’t profit by his career
don’t say Hoover gave nobody beer.
For whoso conniveth at Lenin his dream
shall dine upon bayonets,isn’t and seam
and a miss is as good as a mile is best
for if you’re not bourgeois you’re Eddie Gest
and wastelands live and waistlines die,
which I very much hope it won’t happen to eye;
or as comrade Shakespeare remarked of old
All that Glisters Is Mike Gold
(but a rolling snowball gathers no sparks
--and the same hold true of Karl the Marks).