We’d make the journey, all but Hannibal-esque in nature, Either on foot (even on the most dogged of the dog days When the antidiluvian tar on our side street would bubble up,
See that under the cow? That holds the stuff of life, so pick it up and drink, don’t just kick it.
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter, Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub, A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae, Of leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel, Forlorn, beaten in fact; She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh, (Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings) To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux Purchased from a women at a small shop table, Who’d had the grace […]
It was one of those places which, We were told with stern faces and tones And the occasional smack to the butt, That we were not to go,
Hey, Faulkner has books. Yeats has books. Why, even P.G. Wodehouse has books, some of which I suspect were written after his death. What have they got that I don’t have? (/stares forlornly into the abyss whilst contemplating said question)
You would not, as a rule, find her ilk in these parts; Indeed, frat boys from the state school from a few blocks off, Failing to heed the subtle changes inherent in the urban landscape, Will occasionally stumble into this where-they-don’t-want –to-be And, paying no heed to decorum or traffic regulations, Get to some anywhere-the-hell-else […]