He Was RightPoor man; he's fagged. He also seems depressed.
In London's dirty air, a few years past the War
To End All Wars, he moves morosely among
Drawing rooms, an affluent and educated Yank
Too well-bred for his home, but still uneasy.
Spouting German, French and babble, not
Exactly sure if he should chase the butler
Or the maid, he stares at bric-a-brac
And broods, unwittingly personifying
Curtains drawing on an age. Goodbye
Voltaire and Diderot. Hello, Herr Freud
And Dr. Leary. Aircraft engines roar
Above. A madman stalks the streets of Munich.
One more round of carnage nears. Our sad sack
Tells his tale of woe. A waste land is what
He's described, and, we, one hundred years
Behind, confirm what he has seen.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 140 times
Written on 2019-02-02 at 02:41
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