BUGABOO
Strip me of poetry and
I’m a mailman nothing more
A counter that’s lost the score
A man with no magic wand
Divest me of my masks and
I’m a starch-necked minister
A hair-splitting word-twister
With marble grave close at hand
A bungler who’s trundling along
The sunset his ultimate stop
All love of mankind’s judged as wrong
And bunglers are all for the chop
Gerrit Komrij
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