Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head; We poor lads, 'tis our turn now. To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme. Your friends to death before their time. Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.
A. E. HousmanAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: March 26, 1859
- Died: April 30, 1936
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