At Stratford the poets were meeting,
there was laughter and (doubtless) some bleating.
Though bad tongues did confess
that some stripped off their dress
He had, as Shakespeare said
at last he'd had it.
He closed the book to make
as clean a sweep as he could do.
She said to meet at noon,
under the shade of Moulin Rouge,
where he, the master had once stood,
though swaying, full of straight Pernod,
There once was a fellow named Harris,
a comedian whose wife was called Clarice.
They performed on a stage
with old Rolf in a cage
Some forty years have quickly passed
since I, of younger years and mind,
set foot in Galveston at last
from uni pressures to unwind.
My darling dear across the seas
Would there were an inland breeze
To carry quickly to your side
Myself, a short time to abide.
What a beautiful baby he was,
born with a healthy sucking reflex,
noisy at night, winking Benny Hill-like
during the day, making friends and fans,
All poetry, says Greenwolfe must
be rhyming lest it's bound to bust
from deep within its heart of prose
non-rhyming stuff is on the nose!
Exotic is a word
inside my ears