Work poems

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355

Of the Death of Sir T. W. The Elder

© Henry Howard

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;Such profit he by envy could obtain.

London, hast thou accused meOf breach of laws, the root of strife?Within whose breast did boil to see,So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,That even the hate of sins that growWithin thy wicked walls so rife,For to break forth did convert soThat terror could it not repress

What's the Good?

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

Well, I've done my bit o' scrappin', And I've done in quite a lot;Nicked 'em neatly wiv my bayonet, So I needn't waste a shot

Nameless Pain

© Stoddard Elizabeth

I should be happy with my lot:A wife and mother -- is it notEnough for me to be content?What other blessing could be sent?

Pugnax Gives Notice

© Starnino Carmine

He’s done with it, the tridents and tigers,the manager’s greed, the sumptuous bedsof noble women who please their own moods

On the Obsolescence of Caphone

© Starnino Carmine

Last heard—with a lovely hiss on the "ph"—August 1982 during an afternoon game of scopaturned nasty. And now, missing alongside it,are hundreds of slogans, shibboleths, small