Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter.
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

WH Auden

Read poems about / on: poetry, laughter, children, child

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12/4/2008 11:26:30 AM. You Are Here: Epitaph On A Tyrant by WH Auden