«I love my country, but with a strange love — / stronger than reason!.. / Neither the fame that blood can buy, / nor the calm pride of confidence, / nor the time-honoured gifts of ignorant days / can stir my soul with dreams of happiness. But what I love — for some strange reason — ...»
«We’re all boozers and floozies here, / altogether a joyless crowd! / On the walls, the flowers and birds / yearn for clouds. You sit puffing your black pipe; / smoke is rising; strange and dim. / This tight skirt makes me look / slimmer than slim. The windows boarded up for good — ...»
«We had thought we were beggars, / with nothing at all, / but as loss followed loss / and each day / became a day of memorial, / we began to make songs / about the Lord’s generosity / and our bygone wealth.»
«Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking / of fear, for the bare means of life; / spend the Saturday dozing and drinking, / with your arm round an unlovely wife. Then on Sunday by train for an outing, / with a rug to spread out on the grass, / just to doze off again, never doubting, /...»