Sod pulchritude. Let’s hear it for the plains,
Who, like all dogs, are surely due their day.
Unpurse your whistle-lips and put away
Your pert Pirelli-pictures, with their stains
Of secret substances. You who take pains
To pluck and press the darling buds of May,
Consider something other. Make a play
For summer roses, tempered by the rains
Of real experience, their leathern leaves
Made lovely by the touch of several suns.
Leave the green shoots and carry home the sheaves.
Little Miss Pretty fades with every breath;
Nick the silk stocking and the ladder runs
Through ankle, calf, thigh, cunny, heart and death.
Last edited by Ann Drysdale; 03-12-2013 at 01:38 PM.
Reason: punctuation. Mary was right.
|