Here's a pome for Eliot
Dead two score and six.
Poet, critic, playwright,
crossed the river Styx
shortly after New Year's Day, 1965.
April came and went that year
But he was not alive.
What to make of Prufrock
walking on his beach?
Talking, talking,
always talking ...
Did he eat the peach?
Walking, walking, growing old,
flannels creased to cut the tide
Mermaids singing in the foam
But none, not one, would be his bride.
