I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is -
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:
When muddled mentors take the stage
To gird against our erring,
They simulate an awful rage,
They funk the task and straight engage
I said goodbye to the bees last Friday week,
To blooms, and to things like these, for Winter bleak
Was shouting loud from the hills, and flinging high
His gossamer net that fills frail Autumn's sky.
On one fine but fatal morning in the early Eocene,
Lo, a brawny Bloke set out to dig a hole:
First of men to put a puncture in the tertiary green
Was this early, neolithic, human mole.
The Censor sits behind his desk,
And smiles a censored smile;
His great, blue pencil hovers o'er
Some masterpiece awhile,
''E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth,'
That's wot I reads. It fairly knocked me flat,
'Me soljer cobber, be the name o' Keith.'
Well, if that ain't the limit, strike me fat!
Galloping, galloping, galloping horses
Weave thro' our dreaming in burgeoning Spring;
There's sun in our hearts and there's sun on the courses,
And paeans of hope Winter's threnody forces
When first I found this forest place
More years ago than I can tell,
I met a man of alien race
And came to know and like him well;
You are growing convalescent
As pain's fingers are withdrawn;
And you waken in a strange, white room at last;
Yet your thought is aught but pleasant