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Kingsmill: Two 'Parodies
TWO POEMS
{After A. E. Housman)
1
What, still alive at twenty-two,
A clean upstanding chap like you?
Sure, if your throat 'tis hard to slit,
Slit your girl's, and swing for it.
Like enough, you won't be glad,
When they come to hang you, lad:
But bacon's not the only thing
That's cured by hanging from a string.
So, when the spilt ink of the night
Spreads o'er the blotting pad of light,
Lads whose job is still to do
Shall whet their knives, and think of you.
2
'Tis Summer Time on Bredon,
And now the farmers swear;
The cattle rise and listen
In valleys far and near,
And blush at what they hear.
But when the mists in autumn
On Bredon tops are thick,
The happy hymns of farmers
Go up from fold and rick,
The cattle then are sick.
HUGH KINGSMILL
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