Wednesday 3 November 2010

Not to mention the Dutch prestidigitateur Gerrit Komrij


Strip me of poetry and
I’m a mailman nothing more
A counter that’s lost the score
A man with no magic wand

Divest me of my masks and
I’m a starch-necked minister
A hair-splitting word-twister
With marble grave close at hand

A bungler who’s trundling along
The sunset his ultimate stop
All love of mankind’s judged as wrong
And bunglers are all for the chop 

(To see the collection this has been taken from, go to here)

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