Monday, May 5, 2008

Some Doggerel I Wrote at Breakfast This Morning

With Special Thanks to Messrs. D. Botkin, C. Honsinger, D. Nicholas, and M. Pierce, One of Whom, (My Memory Lapses as to Which) Said Something That Gave Me the First Line.

Is she not that perfection you first touched,
Whom you have tired, and turned tired of?
Are not her hands the hands that first you clutched,
Whose texture you first knew for that of Love?

She is enough to see you to your grave,
Whose dark hair gathers up the ash of years.
What was the prize bestowed upon the brave,
Sufficient beauty keeps to stay thy fears.

-Thomas Banks-

6 comments:

Christopher T. Whalen said...

Your verse is quite amazing. I hear Pope, Swift, and Keats in your work—and yet it is clearly your own. You have an ear, and you have a heart and a mind. I hope you keep developing.

Christopher

Christopher T. Whalen said...

Your verse is quite amazing. I hear Pope, Swift, and Keats in your work—and yet it is clearly your own. You have an ear, and you have a heart and a mind. I hope you keep developing.

Christopher

Thomas Banks said...

Many thanks.

Ibid said...

Um, I have no idea who it was, but I'm just going to say that it was Daniel, because he's melancholy and nostalgic like that. Plus, you know, I'm related to him.

Ibid said...

(by which I meant, nice work)

Ibid said...

Um, I have no idea who it was, but I'm just going to say that it was Daniel, because he's melancholy and nostalgic like that. Plus, you know, I'm related to him.