On Philip Larkin

with apologies to Edward Lear

How pleasant to know Mr Larkin
who has written slim volumes of stuff,
who partook of Earl Grey and parkin
and declined to be seen in the buff.

His manners were British and donnish
(one won't wear one's heart on one's sleeve),
traits that a Yank might admonish,
asking, 'What did this mother believe?'

Some delved in laundry and letters
for a cad with promiscuous needs
but sex clamps us all in its fetters,
and he left us his words, not his deeds.

It's rumoured that Larkin was clever,
so perhaps, in the end, it is best,
to let his words speak out forever,
while the poet enjoys his long rest.

They say he loathed blacks, wogs, and Zion,
when bigoted push came to shove,
but his verse shows what humans rely on:
the almost-ascendence of Love.

© M. A. Griffiths