On being called for congratulations by Jack Kerouac after beating him out for the Prix de Rome: “I was abroad at the time, but he was, my parents wrote me, genial and sincere and a little high.”

There in the shrine at Lourdes 
Embellished with old crutches, splints, and canes 
(Freely abandoned by the cured, 

My dear, your lids are weary;
Lower them, rest your eyes—
As though some languid pleasure

As a young man I was headstrong, willful, rash,
      Determined to amaze,
Grandly indifferent to comfort as to cash,

                 Passengers will please refrain
            from flushing toilets while the train
         is standing in the station. I love you.

Dear Reynolds,

 

That day in New York, when you asked me whether I could recite any limericks of my own, I was momentarily at a total loss, and couldn’t recall a single one; though in the course of years I’ve composed quite a few. So I thought I would send you some. I record them in a pretty good book called The Lure of the Limerick, by W.S. Baring-Gould. But before I offer any works of my own, I should mention one reputedly by Kingsley Amis.

 

 

The fellow who screwed Brigid Brophy

Was awarded the Kraft-Ebbing trophy;

          He was paid eighty quid

          For the thing that he did.

Which many declared was a low fee.

 

And now, some modest efforts of my own.