![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5GY7hyphenhyphenSxIPOivTeKsX7SEO929jbo5zEF3sZ8qFSBPXj5apUcfVNoRzLVcfTvIo4mf5rM0zWwt2k2HRU2HwsSH2nHNtmdyX1VlMqeA5wDeSvpE3fStOKUg26S6ee4F4_G7r3MBfd0Bv4g/s320/imagesCAROP6NN.jpg)
Epitaph on a Tyrant
by W. H. Auden
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
No comments:
Post a Comment