The thread grew long, the heart laid bare,
The field no longer falllow.
But sad to say, the desperate soil
Was pale, and thin, and shallow.

The flow that often waters dreams
And the light of inspiration
Would not appear among these schemes
Of morbid recitation.

AB! AB! CD! CD!
He endlessly strove to write them
Of shoes, and trees, and tired chairs
And such, ad infinitum.

Who walketh here, and walketh there,
From Land's End to Dunkirk,
And in each town, a deadening stare,
Doth fuel his deadly work.

Describing stones, or lizard's dreams,
Or the value of sextuplets,
Would surely bring us more reward,
Than more of these damned couplets.

Wilson Termagenent Junior
Protests and Jellied Things
Bunt, Punt, and Stunted, pubs.
Loch Lomond, 1947