David X Novak
  • Home
  • About
  • Poetry
  • Plays
  • Prose
  • Books
  • News
  • Contact

A Song About Myself by John Keats

10/31/2015

 
John Keats was born on October 31, 1795, making today something of a sacred day among versifiers and lovers of English verse.

A SONG ABOUT MYSELF

                    I.
There was a naughty boy,
   A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
   He could not quiet be— 
      He took
      In his knapsack
      A book
      Full of vowels
      And a shirt
      With some towels,
      A slight cap
      For night cap,
      A hair brush,
      Comb ditto,
      New stockings
      For old ones
      Would split O!
      This knapsack
      Tight at's back
      He rivetted close
   And followed his nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   And follow'd his nose
      To the north.

                    II.
There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
   But scribble poetry— 
      He took
      An ink stand
      In his hand
      And a pen
      Big as ten
      In the other,
      And away
      In a pother
      He ran
      To the mountains
      And fountains
      And ghostes
      And postes
      And witches
      And ditches
      And wrote
      In his coat
      When the weather
      Was cool,
      Fear of gout,
      And without
      When the weather
      Was warm— 
      Och the charm
      When we choose
   To follow one's nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   To follow one's nose
      To the north!

                    III.
There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
   In washing tubs three
      In spite
      Of the might
      Of the maid
      Nor afraid
      Of his Granny-good— 
      He often would
      Hurly burly
      Get up early
      And go
      By hook or crook
      To the brook
      And bring home
      Miller's thumb,
      Tittlebat
      Not over fat,
      Minnows small
      As the stall
      Of a glove,
      Not above
      The size
      Of a nice
      Little baby's
      Little fingers— 
      O he made
      'Twas his trade
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle-
      A kettle
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle!

                    IV.
There was a naughty boy,
   And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
   The people for to see— 
      There he found
      That the ground
      Was as hard,
      That a yard
      Was as long,
      That a song
      Was as merry,
      That a cherry
      Was as red,
      That lead
      Was as weighty,
      That fourscore
      Was as eighty,
      That a door
      Was as wooden
      As in England— 
   So he stood in his shoes
      And he wonder'd,
      He wonder'd,
   He stood in his
      Shoes and he wonder'd.

Comments are closed.
    Picture

    News?

    A new poem is always news to the poet.
    ​Or whatever.

    Archives

    April 2020
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    January 2017
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed