D.H. Lawrence is indeed a strange fellow

And how his mind works mine eye can’t descry.

A man is like fox, aye, to that I must agree

There are far fouler names I could not deny.

 

Partly a tale of life and a dirge of death

A timeless tune that is sung without end.

Then again a story of man and of woman

And the disorienting fog between them.

 

A wooded farm is no place for my ilk;

The ways of the land I find to be quite abstruse.

A fox, some chickens, and neither heifer nor eggs

But only two women, eremitic and recluse.

 

Their farming leaves much to be desired

So no wonder they have been failing lately.

Not all life is work, so leisure is their nature!

To toil under sun and moon is no life for a lady.

 

One is frail is and resembles much a bird,

The other could swab the deck hoist the sails!

This relation seems queer and a trifle uncouth

But that is not the oddest bit the story entails.

 

A young man! A soldier younger than the pair,

Long his snout and quick his sonorous laugh.

Enamored with one, the more robust, aye it is true

His was an ill wind that would split the whole in half.

 

His grandfather dead, but it be of little import

So there he would stay a fortnight or so.

With cunning mind he conceived of his plot

To overcome his prey and make her his betrothed.

 

And he with mysterious eye of his own!

Second only to mine in powers of ‘suasion,

Mesmerized, and swayed her will

But her mate would never see such occasion.

 

And it was so, that cruel fate was so fell

that she was in the path of a tree that was felled,

Death’s bell claimed her with a portentous knell

And so, without coffin, she was draped in the fox’s fell.

 

My sea-legs are restless, and no port in sight

Am I to find recourse in a shallow pond?

I weary of these fables that cloud my sight.

Of these hidden meanings I am not so fond.

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