by John Crowe Ransom
In all the Greek of Plato
I lack my roast beef and potato.
A better man was Aristotle,
Pulling steady on the bottle.
I dip my hat to Chaucer,
Swilling soup from his saucer,
And to Master Shakespeare
Who wrote big on small beer.
The abstemious Wordsworth
Subsisted on a curd's-worth,
But a slick one was Tennyson,
Putting gravy on his venison.
What these men had to eat and drink
Is what we say and what we think.
The influence of Milton
Came wry out of Stilton.
Sing a song for Percy Shelley,
Drowned in pale lemon jelly,
And for precious John Keats,
Dripping blood of pickled beets.
Then there was poor Willie Blake,
He foundered on sweet cake.
God have mercy on the sinner
Who must write with no dinner,
No gravy and no grub,
No pewter and no pub,
No belly and no bowels,
Only consonants and vowels.
ADD
Rhyming to Billie Wyllie
Is singing with an oldie.
Deep in lore is Sue Wade,
Ravishing a Scottish maid.
All the good words of Clarice
Lead everyone to reminisce.
Kathy S. is going to the dogs,
She's tired of the ideologues.
A good man is Joe Ewald,
K of C and St. Vincent de Paul.
Who deserves a piece of fudge.
The influence of Carol Beecher
Inspires the rapporteur.
Pat Winiarski works too hard,
But still held in high regard.
And for missing Sue Bliven,
Our poet equestrienne.
Then there's smooth voice Pete,
Who'll steal your heart in a beat.
Writers all, poets struggling,
Language artists assiduously aspiring.
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