The Poet of Bray

    Back in the dear old thirties' days

    When politics was passion

    A harmless left-wing bard¹ was I

    And so I grew in fashion：

    Although I never really joined

    The Party of the Masses

    I was most awfully² chummy with

    The Proletarian classes.

    This is the course I'll always steer³

    Until the stars grow dim， sir——

    That howsoever taste may veer⁴

    I'll be in the swim， sir.

    But as the tide of war swept on

    I turned Apocalyptic⁵：

    With symbol， myth and archetype

    My verse grew crammed⁶ and cryptic⁷：

    With New Romantic zeal⁸ I swore

    That Auden was a fake， sir，

    And found the mind of Nicky Moore

    More int'resting than Blake， sir.

    White Horsemen down New Roads had run

    But taste required improvement：

    I turned to greet the rising sun

    And so I joined the Movement！

    Glittering and ambiguous

    In villanelles I sported：

    With Dr. Leavis I concurred⁹，

    And when he sneezed I snorted.

    But seeing that even John Wax might wane¹⁰

    I left that one-way street， sir；

    I modified my style again，

    And now I am a Beat， sir：

    So very beat， my soul is beat

    Into a formless jelly：

    I set my verses now to jazz

    And read them on the telly.

    Perpetual non-conformist I——

    And that's the way I'm staying——

    The angriest young man alive

    （Although my hair is greying）

    And in my rage I'll not relent——

    No， not one single minute——

    Against the base Establishment

    （Until， of course， I'm in it）。

    This is the course I'll always steer

    Until the stars grow dim， sir——

    That howsoever taste may veer

    I'll be in the swim， sir.