With the children at play on a sandy Abertawe beach
At home Shakespeare recitals his father would teach

Late on he met a dancer with the same Celtic blood
A match made in London sank slowly in the mud

Back home revived them when The Boat House did call
His quill flowed quite freely to the delight of us all

Alas, New York cried out the famous Chelsea hotel
His tours a great success, only time would tell

To the Whitehorse Tavern his destined drinking well
Until his glass ran empty and time rang his last bell

His life now lost he said he’d change, if he could
His gift to us his last play, Under Milk Wood

Now buried at Laugharne, died on a cold November day
Destined to be a great poet some critics may say