Having passed the age at which
Most of the English poets
Were either dead or wished
Somebody would poison their inkpots,
But not having the guts or balls
It takes to take poison
And not being especially in thrall
To any particular person
Or any special ideology,
Here I sit. Now what happens?
Will the baby's hand of senility
Pick up the block that's battened
Down my hatches for sixty years?
Here I sit. Is there any more beer?
May 2, 2007
