He spoke of love
And dead men’s ease,
Of those Degas paintings
And young dame’s knees,
He thought of logic

And Wittgenstein,
French food and Spanish wine,
Smoked cigars
And bedded ******
He spoke with girls

And college bores,
He kissed and laughed,
And occasionally bathed
With those he loved
And thought of much

Like him and her
And such and such
And others whose names
He’s quite forgotten
Whom he treated well

Or treated rotten
Or never treated at all
But let them fall
From grace of God
To whom he seldom prayed

And rarely trod.
He spoke of hate
And dead men’s grief
And waited death
And death’s relief.