I've loved Max's parrot poem for years.
MISS DICKINSON GOES TO THE OFFICE
Because I could not stop for lunch,
it kindly stopped for me.
The lunch tray held a lemon sponge
and watercress and tea.
I heard a fly buzz - in the slaw -
immortal for an hour.
The tea was hot - a small Brazil-
although the cream was sour.
Since then 'tis centuries, yet each
seems shorter than the day
I first surmised the weekend was
five working days away.
MR. HOUSMAN AT SEVENTY
When I was one-and-twenty,
My friends would often vow
That I depressed them plenty.
They ought to see me now.
I think about the end times
That daily draw more near.
I don't brood much on end rhymes,
I save my strength for fear.
I pass the barber, knowing
With every trim or shave
He sees my haircut growing
Some inches in the grave.
The doubts I couldn't bluff through
Hang heavy on my wrists.
There isn't time enough to
Decide if God exists.
My life is blindman's buff, is
The water in a sieve.
I wonder if my Fluff is
The cat I won't outlive.
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