This Be the Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Philip Larkin
Real Talk, miserable old bastard though. I bet he lives in a cave somewhere, scrawling out poems every so often, after catching and eating fish in a gollum-esque fashion. And every full moon, his publisher journeys, battling against all the elements, to his hovel and receives new wise, cynical words from a scabby, long nailed hand.
Philip Larkin
Real Talk, miserable old bastard though. I bet he lives in a cave somewhere, scrawling out poems every so often, after catching and eating fish in a gollum-esque fashion. And every full moon, his publisher journeys, battling against all the elements, to his hovel and receives new wise, cynical words from a scabby, long nailed hand.
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