Prate not to me of suicide, Faint heart in battle, not for pride I say Endure, but that such end denied Makes welcomer yet the death that's to be died.
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning. I was much further out than you thought, and not waving but drowning. I was much too far out all my life, And not waving but drowning.
This Englishwoman is so refined, She has no bosom and no behind.
I may be smelly and I may be old, Rough in my pebbles, reedy in my pools, But where my fish float by I bless their swimming, And I like the people to bathe in me especially women.
I don't think Auden liked my poetry very much, he's very Anglican.
Hope and desire, All unfulfilled, Have more than rope And hangman killed.
