No More A Roving

 

NOTHING made Wordsworth sad.

Old Sam Coleridge thought  "Too bad."

They kept on writing -- not for spite

But to apprehend the endless night.

And because that is what they did

They even somewhat liked that kid:

John Keats was the poor boy's name

Who couldn't stand the endless same

And one day, well, he just took off

To Rome because he knew his cough

Meant that soon he would be dead.

"Oh, my poor friend" is what he said

To his friend who watched the poor guy die.

And Keats still wondered "Who am I?"

And knew he would be nothing soon.

The endless night.  The falling moon.

 

 

Dreamland

 

It is a nice nursing home.

And it has a fine smoking lounge

Where you can be completely alone

And listen to Sweet Georgia Brown.

 

Invisible hand.   Invisible band.

You is old and think of your mother.

But the band plays as it’s going away

In smoke.  So why should you bother?

 

There was this and then there was that.

You should have got out of that town.

But you is just where you is at.

They go up and then they go down.
Some Last Words

 

Someone called  "Der Alte Professor."

The little man behind the curtain.

"I am OZ the great."

Toto knows but is nice to him.

He is so nice to him.

He loves the little guy.

Later, they all step inside a tangerine

and ride pretty ponies up the golden steps

to the sun.

The sun says: "Go home and go to bed."

So they do:  lion, scarecrow, tin man,

Dorothy, Toto, Old Professor.

They dream of a carousel in a park in winter.

They dream of the snow that seems so shy.

The delicate mouth of the giraffe.

The white elephant.

This mirror shows them sleeping.

Why do they seem so forsaken?