A Set of Poems by Thomas Thornburg

Poor Eddie Poe
collapsed in the snow
and exhaled no more
in old Baltimore.

Poor Mary Mallon
wept o’er many a gallon
of soapsuds, avoiding
the cops, and typhoiding.

W. B. Yeats
believed in the fates,
but on Sunday
in Spiritus Mundi.

Fenimore Cooper
did not make a trooper,
but wrote some novels
about hovels.

Geoffrey Chaucer
wore a hat like a saucer
and puddled his boote
in Aprille soote.

Benjamin Franklin
had a capital hankerin’
for shirts white as milk
and things of that ilk.

And Franklin
developed a chancre in
privy parts (the derision
of ladies Parisian).

And so brother Ben
was recalled homeward when
he engaged in such pleasantries
in his seventies.

Dame Edith Sitwell
whose clothes did not fit well
caused a social upheaval
in robes medieval.

Our Lord Henry Ford
struck a common accord,
the old rattle-trap, he
and his tin Model T.

When Lady Mary Montagu
attended soirees, folks would “whew!”
Coiffured and coiffed in bright ribbands,
when they remarked her dirty hands,
Mary would say in accents sweet:
“You should see my feet.”

For those who do not know, Thomas R. Thornburg was long ago my mentor and master and keeper of a Great House upon the River in Old Muncee Town. And, while I was incorrigible as a student and often slow to take instruction, a thing or two did sink in eventually, and I was better for it. I am most pleased to add his name to our list of contributors.

-Stan