Not Daffodils
The poet wandered the lake strewn countryside,
This poor scribe’s muse had taken a notion to hide.
Then of a sudden charming clumps of turnips he saw,
That suffused him with excitation inside his very core.
Row on row of the vegetables lay verdant in the field,
‘Twas as if Nature’s portals to him had been revealed.
A turn up of turnip, how propitious could it prove to be?
Might it stir his flaccid quill and set his inner genie free?
He set to straightway by candle light, rooted life inspired,
Put a weighty turnip on his desk for the spur he required.
Poetry scratched in the workbook with a consummate ease,
He sensed his re-emerged muse wait obligingly at his knees.
A poem to show Wordsworth who had put him in the shade,
With words to the wonder of God’s handicraft be he repaid.
This poetic recall of his floral thrall was a radical conception,
He could not wait, began to palpitate, for “Turnips” reception.
Wordsworth and his lowly rival were eventually confronted
But the famous man arrested the vindication he had wanted.
"Do do read my encomium to Daffodils, said he, dear fellow;
You had some piece of yours I believe, you wish me to appraise."
Later in a turnip field a crestfallen poet could be heard to bellow:
"It is mine to a tee except he chose that wretched flower to praise."
The wretch wretched, sick with a bile that was a shade of yellow.
Frank
A very moving piece Wizzy.
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