Monday, January 29, 2007

[bryon drol] romantic poet of the 19th century

Brief bio: The club-footed Bryon Drol was born with a silver spoon in his mouth but chose to frequent the House of Drols bar, rather than take his seat with his fellow peers. Preferring solitude to bonhomie, he’d take his place in the corner of the bar at the end of the long red rug, observing all and sundry, sipping his ale and shrewdly noting the doings of one ‘Arry Naismith, whom Bryon was wont to call Child ‘Arrold.

Eventually, in 1811, he was persuaded to take his seat and in his maiden speech the following year, very nearly managed to get his throat cut, which later inspired him to write about the experience. However, he made a breathtaking getaway through the Sovereign's Entrance and they only managed to recover the seat by intercepting him in Belgium, enroute for Villa Datoid by Lake Geneva. Chief Inspector 'Arry Lamb released him though, on the grounds that 'ee was off his brain and a rite nutta'.

Here are two sensitive poems from his pen, dedicated, respectively, to his daughter Linda Lovelace and to his dear friendlet John Stonedel. You’re asked to vote, in the comments section, for that which moves you the more. Thank you.

Roll on, thou deep and dark red carpet – roll!
Ten thousand feet sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the rug with beer stains – his control
Stops with the door.

There is a pleasure in this toothless brood,
There is a rupture in the spleen for sure,
There is society, it shan’t intrude,
By the deep rug, as I throw up on the floor:
I love not them the less, but loneness more.

No comments: