Hardy was a misery, Blake the furthest
mystery,
Auden was a brainbox, Thomas alcoholic,
Eliot and Kipling – sent their letters
rippling,
Emerson a clever one, Chaucer ever saucy,
Dickinson amazing, Whitman went out
traipsing,
cummings hated capitals, Owen had a war on,
Larkin was hardworking, Hughes became a
laureate,
Tennyson another one, and who was HD?
But Wallace Edgar’s Wallace
tosses Shakespeare sonnets
out into a flat cap
when t’lion et up Albert.
Plenty to laugh at int’ zoo
‘ind ‘im in his Sunday clothes too.’
