from part III of "In Memory of W.B. Yeats," which, as i understand it was actually written before Yeats died. Auden just put it in a desk and waited. (i think i'll do that for you AJ.)
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vinyeard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let teh healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
4 comments:
"Let teh healing fountain start"
Here's my submission for AJ's eulogy, actually, it's more like a limerick:
There was a man: A.J. Howard,
He moved to D.C. to be empowered,
Got drunk, fell on his face,
Then moved back to his place--
What a coward!
Wow, what a terrible limerick!
Let's give this another shot:
There once was a man: Cooter,
He moved down south on a scooter,
Bought a horse, broke her leg,
Then had to shoot her!
No, no, no. It's just not right.
There once was woman: Tyrona,
Who loved drinking Corona,
Got wasted all the time,
Preferred salt but no lime,
And her grandmother lived in Katonah.
Hmmm, Auden makes it look so easy. One more try:
There was a man named Tim:
He went to Vegas on a whim,
Drank too much Jack,
Lost all his stack,
And regretted going out on a limb.
There. Perfect. Auden is rolling in his grave now.
this doesn't make any sense. i wrote it in three minutes.
there once was an editor daniel,
The pharmacist said "Its for 'anne,'" he yelled.
But Webb was too quick,
To put cream on his dick,
at least now he won't have the warts genital
I have a few friends who can't rhyme,
Their Blogs are a complete waste of time,
Each tries ever so hard,
and comes off as a 'tard,
their terrible poetry's a cold blooded crime.
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