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A conceit; imagining Ogden Nash meeting John Betjeman

Bel Air

Oh Syd, you poor rich kid;
out for a drive that day,
in your Papa’s Chevrolet;
with Lana your choicest lay.
Driving at too high a speed,
tanked on Bourbon, and weed;

So, you misjudged the corner,
drifting too far wide to see,
the inevitability of gravity.
Was it then a kind of release,
from all parental authority,
into your own immortality?

© D G Moody 2022

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons: Bene Rioba

Poetry by D G Moody