Autobiographical Fragment

When I lived down in Devonshire

The callers at my cottage

Were Constant Angst, the art critic,

And old Major Courage.

Angst always brought me something nice

To get in my good graces:

A quilt, a roll of cotton-wool,

A pair of dark glasses.

He tore up all my unpaid bills,

Went and got my slippers,

Took the telephone off its hook

And bolted up the shutters.

We smoked and chatted by the fire,

Sometimes just nodding;

His charming presence made it right

To sit and do nothing.

But then – those awful afternoons

I walked out with the Major!

I ran up hills, down streams, through briars;

It was sheer blue murder.

Trim in his boots, riding-breeches

And threadbare Norfolk jacket,

He watched me, frowning, bawled commands

To work hard and enjoy it.

I asked him once why I was there,

Except to get all dirty;

He tugged his grey moustache and snapped:

‘Young man, it’s your duty.’

What duty’s served by pointless, mad

Climbing and crawling?

I tell you, I was thankful when

The old bore stopped calling.