Have at you, Brian.
The City of Kingston-on-Hull
Is quite unbelievably dull,
As weary, nay wearier
Than a night in Siberia,
Or a wet Sunday morning in Mull.
And whenever I hear the word Cult-
ure, it conjures a horrible mulch
Of opaque foreign plays
And they go on for days,
Like being pegged out to die in a gulch.
It's as slab and as sticky as parkin,
Or a tentative grope after dark in
An old people's home,
Scarcely worth a full pome.
So these are the limericks of Larkin.
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