Dunciad Variorum
'Twas Pope who wrote that angels fear
To rush where fools abide
But he had drunk three quarts of beer
And several pints beside
He ran full headlong into Swift
In front of old St Paul's
And found himself then soundly biffed
That's how he lost his balls
Southey, then, did cross his way
Behind Madame Tussaud's
And played him quite a roundelay
That quelled the raging hordes
But, for Pope, it dished his brains
Not far from Hampton Court
Where the steeple amply cranes
And tresses are cut short
So Pope, poor fool, was Dryden's sot,
And clapped him in the Tower
Which was the only praise he got
And lasted half an hour
Pope then met the poet Blake
In Stratford-atte-Bowe
Where they wrastled in the lake
The cheeky so-and-so ...
But, of them all, 'twas surely Keats
Who cracked the maker's mould
And got so many 'tween the sheets
Before he quit the fold
Envoi: Poets should not rightly say
'Calloo', unless they mean 'Callay'.
Contributors: | Apsley, Surlaw. |
Poem finished: | 2nd June 2004 by Shipp. |