“O to dwell in the past!” yearned the poet. “How nice!”
“The words of today are so coarse!”
So he wallowed in syphilis, sadness and lice,
Wrote a sonnet, then married his horse.
He sat with dear Dobbin ‘neath shimm’ring skies,
as they supped on warm ale and hard cheese,
crying “Yonder, the moon shineth o’er the rise!”
“Pray my love, fetch my quill if ye please.”
Deep into the gloaming the poet didst muse,
as the horse she fell weary and bitter,
He cried “Tarry! Thine face is the bounty I choose!”
Dobbin smiled, and then trolled him on Twitter.
11 May 2019