Frankie Bailer

The Descent of Man

 

Mr. Tennyson

Awoke yesterday

And trepidly trudged from his tomb.

So long had he slept

That as he now crept

He recognised not where he roomed.

For time did abound

As he laid underground

And Westminster'd changed quite a bit.

He wobbled and hobbled

O'er stone floors still cobbled

And found a rough place where to sit.

The tourists near

Were dressed sharply queer--

The poet was very confused.

He looked frant' around

And happily found

An object to which he was used.

For on a table

Sate volume of sable

Containing modern poetry

He opened its pages

To see what the sages

Now wrote so enlighteningly.

For aft' many seasons,

He logic'ly reasoned,

Man has to have upwardly grown.

But 'stead of enlight'ning,

He found their words fright'ning

And let out an audible moan.

 

A critic of such literature

visiting Poet's Corner,

thinking it a worthy atmosphere

in which to do his work,

heard the poet's lamentation,

and turning to find

a stranger

reading his anthology,

he strode to the man

Curious

to find the meaning of his apparent disdain.

"What distresses you, mate?" he inquired,

assuming the opposite seat.

 

Then Tennyson gave his reply,

But first he heaved a heavy sigh,

He said the poems evoked his cry,

Such weary topics, sad and dry,

What were these works which had been wrought?

"With words these writers seemeth slow.

They've lost all rhyme and rhythmic flow--

How this be great, I'll never know--

'twas written by a sot!"

 

"Ah, but that is the beauty

of poetry,"

the critic replied,

delighted to have one

interested enough to converse,

"It is free.

We have liberated it

in these more enlightened times.

We are no longer bound

by rhyme and metre

as Frost and Chaucer were,

and now we soar beyond them.

Poetry,

like man's mind,

now is unrestrained and able to flow

wherever it wishes—”

 

Interrupting with a shiver,

"Rue the day when dead men quiver!"

Tennyson did loudly utter,

And tourists turned their heads in wonder,

Was a prophet on the lot?

Turning, walking, head encumbered,

To his tomb he slowly lumbered,

Glad now for his quiet slumber,

Mr. Tennyson

Returned yesterday,

Ever so thankful

For the silence of the grave.