I think you'd hate my work. You sat for hours
alone with coffee or perhaps with tea.
Grumpy face frowning, maybe not at me
for watching. And we should have brought you flowers.
We were your children some of us. A voice
nuanced and whimsical that terrifies
with morals. And at horror simply cries
and sees significance in every choice
rewrites rethinking endlessly. Work's done
but never over. Tinker with each word.
History's the thing that actually occurred
As Ranke said. And yet you had such fun.
Eliot the evil father we despise.
Big brother Wystan, make us smart and wise.