The Irish Tower in LA
Has all the Greats, like Keats and Yeats,
Who sing for all and sing for aye
And stack up rhymes like dinner plates.
And every one is good and true,
Except, as it happens, when they ain’t:
So what’s a simple man to do
When told the truth, but told it slant,
But trust in angels, saints, and Yeats
(And Keats)? For as his recompense,
He wants his high and mighty mates
Pungent and true as frankincense.
So he listens hard, and he takes good notes,
And if in company he is dumb,
Every hundred years—and he quotes—
Some things wonderful this way come.
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