Happy New Year

Warm wishes to one and all.

This poem's not in the spirit of the day, perhaps, but I'm at work and a little grouchy. So here's a rant from one of my favorite misanthropes, Philip Larkin:

Toads

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.

Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losers, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;

Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
They seem to like it.

Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.

Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout, Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:

For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,

And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.

I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.

He's such a grump! I think I'll drink a beer and watch some football-STAT-before I'm Mr. Bitter-and-Resentful.

Especially since I actually like work, and think that work is a central human value and all that.

And especially especially since I am no Philip Larkin. (Nor was meant to be?)

Go Wolverines!