BALLADE OF THE BACKS
IN May one often sees a fool
(A fool one guesses him to be)
Canoeing up to Byron’s Pool,
Or downward toward the salty sea.
One of them necessarily,
Unless one absolutely slacks
(Say under King’s or Trinity)
Upon the backs—upon the backs.
The garb this person wears is cool,
As his own self-complacency.
He wears a blazer made of wool
Or flannel (This is poetry,
And tailoring is nought to me)
Whose colours might be filed in stacks;
A straw in speechless harmony!
Upon the backs—upon the backs.
He smokes the weed of Istamboul;
He vaguely feels that he is free.
He seems to challenge Nature: “ Who'll
Dare to constrain my liberty ?”
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