Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The sight of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labours;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbours.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.