……..Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
…Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
…And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
…When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
…Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
…And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
…And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
…That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
…And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
…Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
…Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
…And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
…Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
…But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
…And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
…Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
…And kept on drinking.
The Bard on the Hill 