Thursday, June 14, 2012


                                      Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
                                           Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
                                      He wept that he was ever born,
                                           And he had reasons.

                                      Miniver loved the days of old
                                           When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
                                      The vision of warrior bold  
                                            Would set him dancing.

                                       Miniver sighed for what was not,
                                             And dreamed, and rested  from his labors;
                                        He dreamed  of Thebes and Camelot,
                                             And Priam's neighbors.

                                        Miniver mourned the ripe renown 
                                             That made so many a name so fragment;
                                         He mourned Romance, now on the town,
                                             And Art, a vagrant.

                                         Miniver loved the Medici,
                                              Albeit he had never seen one;
                                         He would have have sinned incessantly
                                              Could he have been one.

                                         Miniver cursed the commonplace
                                              And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
                                         Hi missed the medieval grace
                                              Of iron clothing.

                                         Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
                                              But sore annoyed was he without it,
                                         Miniver thought, and thought, and thought
                                              And thought about it.
                                         Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
                                              Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
                                         Miniver Coughed, and called it fate,
                                              And kept on drinking.

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