He Sits and Reads Poetry all the long day,
While the World in it\'s Humour spins Merrily away.
When there\'s bilious Hot Air by all Puffed-Up MPs,
He\'s lost in his Chair in all Comfort and Ease.
While Athletes do preen Winning various feats,
He walks in Nirvana by the Shade of John Keats.
When legs shin up Mountains at a Perilous cost,
He\'s asking for Roses with Robert Lee Frost.
While Peace Makers sigh with diminishing hope,
He Bathes in the Glories of Tennison and Pope.
For War is the indulgence of the Crippled of Mind,
So in Longfellow and Shelly there\'s a Peace he can find.
And while Newspapers Snipe , their Venom so Made,
He reads of those Hymns to Laura once Paid.
To Heavenly Beatrice who snared the good Heart,
Of a Florentine Poet and Burnished his Art.
Those Grandees of Rome that feed the dull mind,
With their Honeyed Sweet Verse that Blossom with time,
So with Homer and Virgil he could never yet spurn,
As our Leaders do fiddle while the World slowly burns.
Companions are a nuisance, he feels no demand,
What need of dull friendship with Sandburg at hand.
So he sits and Reads Poetry all the long day,
While the World in it\'s Madness Spins merrily away.
For beyond the glass Pane are workings Obscene,
So he treads the soft Blades of Elysian green.