What's your favourite poem?

MonkieSocks

Robert Herrick – Fair Daffodils


Fair daffodils, we weep to see, you haste away so soon
As yet the early-rising sun, has not attained his noon

Stay, stay, until the hasting day has run but to the evensong;
And, having prayed together, we will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you; we have as short as spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay, as you or anything.

We die as your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, Ne’er to be found again

HappyAsLarE

Iniskeen Road by Paddy Kavanagh

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

Spanish Eyes

For my mam. She lost her house, her health and her husband.

We look after her well though!

This is for her.

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods against the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

Padraig Colum

Funkfield

Always thought this was pretty special

The Listeners
BY WALTER DE LA MARE
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

byronbay2

Pinch Flat wrote: »

Her name was Honour,
She made me an offer,
And all night long,
I was on her an off her

Not the way I was taught it for the LC:

She offered her honour
And I honoured her offer
All night long
I was on her and off her!

DickSwiveller

Lament for Brendan Behan by Joe O Broin

"Sad solemn notes and crates of newly drawn stout,
the usual symptoms when a life goes out.
But the extinction this time being seven times the most.
The music held no echo and the tears drowned our toast.
Sorrow and bereavement, life has no meaning now: silence is master.
Laughter and song bowed for gone went our great captain to some more hospitable inn
where cant and hypocrisy can no longer embarrass him."

For those interested, here's a clip of Ciarán Bourke reciting the poem on the Late Late.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3YPx1nZzCo

DickSwiveller

Funkfield wrote: »

Always thought this was pretty special

The Listeners
BY WALTER DE LA MARE
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Fantastic

Mrsmum

Spanish Eyes wrote: »

For my mam. She lost her house, her health and her husband.

We look after her well though!

This is for her.

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods against the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

Padraig Colum

That was a poem my granny loved. Thanks for reminding me of it.

Princess Consuela Bananahammock

We should put you in jail
Where you can't kill or maim us
But this is L.A.
And you're rich and faaaay-mous....

Mam of 4

This is a brilliant thread , quite deep for AH if I'm honest , some fantastic , thought provoking poems .

Rubberlegs

The Guppy by Ogden Nash was in a primary school reader

Whales have calves
Cats have kittens
Bears have cubs
Bats have bittens
Swans have cygnets
Seals have puppies
But guppies just have little guppies

As was Seamus Heaney's Midterm Break

"A four foot box, a foot for every year", that line chokes me up

DickSwiveller

This is a poem written by my father about his best friend who passed away 2 years ago. My Dad, a school teacher, met Kevin, who was homeless at the time when he was volunteering in the Simon Community, and they became close friends. I think it's nice so why not share it.

My mate Kevin

I see him still, waiting in the Basement
off Blessington Street.
Talking to his soulmates as he saunters around the park,
at home in his paradise.
Upon entering, I call “Kevin, Kevin”
and within seconds his friendly, full face appears
with a wry smile and a carefree look.
This weekly encounter, a highlight of my week,
as friends come together and fill the air with laughter.

Some folk used say “What did you have in common?”
what made you click, easy?
me a high school graduate,
him a low school dropout at 12,
with a careful, sharp, mathematical brain, however.

Cabra drew us together first,
we understood each other, became bosom buddies
never a cross word, never a falling out;
through thick and thin we grew together.
The road taken, we walked that road together,
friends, comrades, buddies, mates.

Dublin made Kevin, as Dublin as a pint of stout,
as Dublin as the river Liffey,
Dublin through and through.
His soft gentle voice still rings in my ears,
beautiful sounds of old Dublin past;
but thankfully the memories remain unsurpassed,
buried deep in my inner mind.

Wheres Kevin now, I wonder.
He’s somewhere safe I hope.

Tell me how

I always struggled with poetry in school in the sense that "it had to mean something specific". I'm sure it did when the author wrote it but every reader can interpret things differently.

How we read it in our head influences the meaning we think it holds, different words can take on different emphasis depending on how it "sounds".

I always read Seamus Henry's mid term break very slowly but when Seamus himself read it (available on YouTube) he did so quite briskly, nearly like it was the reading of an entry from the persons diary than an actual thought or experience happening as the poem develops.

I found this changed my interpretation of it. Particularly that last line.

machiavellianme

I know it has been done to death but I've a soft spot for this Dylan Thomas gem:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

_Whimsical_

Hard to beat Patrick Kavanagh I think myself.

Love these lines particularly,
From the poem Advent

"We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder."

lardzeppelin

In dillman's grove my love did die
And now in ground shall ever lie
None could ever replace her viasge
Until your face brought thoughts of kissage...

More from John Lillison, England's greatest one armed poet...

r93kaey5p2izun

This Moment by Eavan Boland.

A neighbourhood.
At dusk.

Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.

Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.

But not yet.

One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.

A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.

Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.

DickSwiveller

If by Rudyard Kipling

4th verse

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

My favourite poem changes on a regular basis.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.


Mary Elizabeth Frye

tradhead

John Keats- When I have fears that I may cease to be. The last few lines always come to mind when I’m near the sea, I’ve always found it great consolation whenever I get a bit freaked about what I’m at with my life and what to do next.


When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Noveight

My single favourite piece of poetry is the opening lines to William Blake's The Ecchoing Green -

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies

But in terms of my favourite entire poem, I'll have Charge of the Light Brigade.

Wellyd

All of my favourite poems come from primary school! Already mentioned in this thread Stopping by woods on a snowy evening and The Listeners. Another one taught to me by a very creative and dramatic teacher was he wishes for the cloths of heaven. Those three have always stuck with me.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Mountainsandh

It will probably look like commercial ****e to all of you intellectuals, but I like the poems of Erin Hanson. She is a sad souled young Australian, and most of her poetry is about depression, soul searching, growing up... it's very repetitive, but some of the poems are with me silently, often.
I think it's the simplicity, and the fact that I work with teenagers, it relates.


She's the one who wrote the quote that lots of youngsters seem to like nowadays :

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask "What if I fall ?"
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly ?

I like the poems that speak of nature and the universe.

Samuel T. Cogley

Pretty much anything in here.

Also quite like:

Summer wind

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils 🌼

This has always been my favorite. Pure magic.

gimli2112

Rime of the ancient mariner
for the arrogance
the story
the redemption
and the Iron Maiden song

cumulonimbus

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.

My favourite version is the one by the Simpsons and read by James Earl Jones:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLiXjaPqSyY in case the above doesn't work.

Another brilliant poem is Vincent by Tim Burton, read by Vincent Price:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkMJlRmQh7M

Lucy8080

" A Confederate soldier's prayer"

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve.
I was made weak,that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked for health,that I might do greater things,
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

I asked for riches, that I might be happy.
I was given poverty,that I might be wise.
I asked for power, that I might have praise of men.
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life,
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.

Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.

I got nothing I asked for, but all I hoped for.
I am among all men, most richly blessed!

-unknown.

Sile Na Gig

I like Yeats as well.
He was a very interesting guy. Thought to possibly have Asperger's and got into mysticism later in life.
Always searching for some kind of meaning.

I love his work but the man was a sex pest. Typical ‘nice guy’ why-won’t-she-fcuk-me whingery... poor Maud Gonne!

My favourite is Auden

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

twignme

And The Days Are Not Full Enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life goes by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

Ezra Pound

Permabear

This post has been deleted.

HappyAsLarE

Mid-term Break by Seamus Heaney is about the death of his younger brother.

I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying—
He had always taken funerals in his stride—
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'.
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four-foot box, a foot for every year.

judeboy101

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

anewme

Strictly for the dog lovers. friend sent it to me in a card a while after we had our old dog PTS a few years back. Gets me every time.

Kipling -The Power of The Dog.

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find - it's your own affair, -
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone - wherever it goes - for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long -
So why in - Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

The Cush

Funkfield wrote: »

Always thought this was pretty special

The Listeners
BY WALTER DE LA MARE
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

This is the only poem from school that sticks in my mind to this day, still have a copy of Exploring English 3 here on the shelf, page 134.

RhubarbCrumble

Permabear wrote: »

This post had been deleted.

I did my leaving in '97. How long afterwards did Soundings last I wonder?
It must have been close to the end at that stage.

I still have my copy.

Alf Veedersane

Macavity: The Mystery Cat


It's how I learned that cats are treacherous cretins; a lesson that has stood to me

Permabear

This post has been deleted.

Atoms for Peace

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

Rubberlegs

Another primary school poem by Padraic Colum, Old Woman of the Roads. I used to feel so sorry for her

poster2525

One of my favourites:

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

antodeco

Seamus O'Neill's "Bhí subject milis"

Original

Bhí subh milis
Ar bhaschrann an dorais
Ach mhúch mé an corraí
Ionam d'éirigh,
Mar smaoinigh mé ar an lá
A bheas an baschrann glan,
Agus an láimh bheag
Ar iarraidh.

Translation

There was jam
On the doorhandle
But I suppressed the anger
That rose up in me,
Because I thought of the day
That the doorhandle would be clean
And the little hand
Would be gone

Mrsmum

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
—William Shakespeare

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Permabear

This post has been deleted.

MagicIRL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s

I first heard this about five years ago and it has stuck with me ever since. Simply incredible.

Mrsmum

The dilemma of love!
Richard Murphy (1927-)

To think
I must be alone:
To love
We must be together.

I think I love you
When I’m alone
More than I think of you
When we’re together.

I cannot think
Without loving
Or love
Without thinking.

Alone I love
To think of us together:
Together I think
I’d love to be alone.

Corkgirl18

Hope is the thing with feathers by Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

DickSwiveller

In to my Heart an Air that Kills by AE Housman

In to my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows
What are those blue remembered hills
What spires, what farms are those
It is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain
Those happy highways were I went
And can not come again.

Pugzilla

Percy Shelley's "Ozymandias"

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Birneybau

Another from Philip Larkin:

Annus Mirabilis

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

Up to then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.