I’ve long suspected those doomed works of Tolstoy,
Should never, well hardly ever, be treated as a toy.
And sadly I must regretfully decline,
All offers to browse any fiction by Gertrude Stein.
And why when I attend a reading on Blake,
I’m just about able to stay awake?
Concerning Plato, Aristotle and of course Socrates,
To me, if you ask, these are just a tease,
from all the rest,
Who claim of course they know best!
And for me, dear friend religion will never be found in Milton,
But in the glorious Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
And may I suggest that any poem by Alexander Pope
Can and never will offer any spiritual prayer or hope!
And may I say that Shakespeare,
Does seem to appear,
In his comedies, sonnets and scribe,
Or not to be.
My proverbial cup of earl grey tea!
And after an entertaining lecture on Poe,
Why am I left once again with a permanent depressing low?
And dear old Jonathan Swift,
Can offer it seems no special spiritual gift!
And even the colourful cast of characters penned by Dickens
Mearly allows me to ask (in all sincerity) What the Dickens?
I am born, declared the fictitious David Copperfield.
Thy will be done declared the Son of God.
In the beginning God declares the word of God!
So sadly I must propose that all else.
Is just a lost forgotten literary cause.
(With apologies to W.S. Gilbert & Lorenz Hart)
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