Literary Minds

For one moment with Keats
I would cut off my leg,
twist my arm around,
drive nails through my head;
To lie next to Byron
I would come at another
with a knife in one hand,
or a pillow to smother;
Poe’s company inspires me
to run from this town,
walking all day and night
to hunt the man down;
and King, though he lives,
I must class as a Great -
he could command me at will
to do all that I hate;
I crave literary minds
to feed my abscess,
chewing on metaphor,
mulling over success!
Sat around a table,
five Greats taking lunch,
we’d talk politics, rollicking
through tea, supper, brunch.
‘Beauty!’ Keats cries,
‘is the truth of it all!’
I expect Byron’s more taken
by the boy in the hall
who lingers at the door,
listening in on his own,
(his name’s Gaiman or Pullman
or some other unknown);
Poe makes the bones shake
as he discusses with King
the virtues of vampires
and other curious things;
and if conversation dips,
we can call on a friend;
Shelley or Milton
might chatter no end!
And when the evening’s done
I’ll retire with a smile,
bid my companions good night,
my eyes bright all the while.
We’ll convene again soon,
when the night suits us all;
Until then, I must wait
for those Great Minds to call…