I knew a man, he was my chum,
But he grew blacker every day,
And would not brush the flies away,
Nor blanch however fierce the hum
Of passing shells. I used to read,
To rouse him, random things from Donne,
Like ‘Get with child a mandrake-root,’
But you can tell he was far gone,
For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,
And stiff and senseless as a post,
Even when that old poet cried,
‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.’
I tried the Elegies one day;
But he, because he heard me say,
‘What needst thou have more covering than a man?’
Grinned nastily, and so I knew
The worms had got his brains at last.
There was one thing that I might do
To starve the worms; I racked my head
For healthy things and quoted _Maud_.
His grin got worse, and I could see
He laughed at passion’s purity.
He stank so badly, though we were great chums
I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.