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I have a little...not fame, call it reputation—for writing verses.
My books get published, even read a little,
These forty years. A reputation by that time should be forgotten.
Or else established. But no, neither happens.
Nearly every year some new bevy of young men with paper axes
Cries to cut down the tough little plant—
(Because I have failed to answer their letters, or failed to praise
Their hysterical nonsense—My God, what a crop
In America and Britain) but the plant survives.
I seem to have, like the old wolf my father, a talent for making enemies,
And luckily my skin is like his mosquito proof.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 5 Jul 2008 10:31 PM | Viewed: 1397 times

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