K. Morris's Blog, page 549

“Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson

“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we...

There Was A Young Lady Named Pru

There was a young lady named Pru
Who was a Tory of the deepest blue.
She refused to sleep in a bed
Because it’s covers were red
So she slept in a bed of blue!

There Was A Young Man From Greece

There was a young man from Greece
Who bought a house on a lease.
His estate agent, named Claire
Said “I swear
That with this purchase your wealth will increase!”.

She Tired

She tired.
Once desired
Her idea
Inspired
Restless nights,
Delights
And fear.
But pleasures heights
Achieved
He grieved
For she
Who lay tired
And no more desired.

There Was A Young Lady Named Kate

There was a young lady named Kate
Who lived on a country estate.
Her father, lord Moor
Was a terrible old bore
So Kate ran away with his mate!

Dinosaur

When man sins
The world spins on
And will do so
Long after his joy and woe
Are gone
With the dinosaur
Who came before.

Mass Murderers Both

Yesterday evening I bumped into an old acquaintance in the pub. Our conversation ranged far and wide and at one point touched on the atrocities perpetrated by Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin. There was some discussion as to which dictator was the worst criminal, with my acquaintance maintaining that Stalin was the greater due to him having murdered around 20 million of his own people. My view of the matter is set-out in my poem, “Hitler and Stalin” which first appeared here some time ago:

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There Was A Young Lady Named Claire

There was a young lady named Claire
Who visited the wolf in his lair.
Without bothering to phone
She went there alone.
There was a young lady named Claire …

The Writer’s Pen

You accuse me of hiding in my ivory tower.
I answer that I have no power,
Other than my pen
Which when
It scratches
Sometimes catches
The truth of the matter,
Causing the fine porcelain
Of your ideals to shatter,
Revealing the stain
Called human nature.
For each man is a prater
And the writer’s pen
Can interpret the hearts of men.

A Rich Young Lady Called Claire

A rich young lady called Claire
Said “I really do care
About the plight of the poor.
We should do far more”.
So she donated her faux fur coat!