A couple of years ago, in response to a challenge from one of my children, I wrote a poem. It’s not a good poem, and even a Vogon would be embarassed by it. But nevertheless, a poem it is. A while back I found it tucked inside a book and, since there is unlikely to be a follow-up, immediately thought I should expose myself to ridicule by posting it here. It’s really bad.
For those who can’t read my writing:
Plato, in the cave,
Watches the firelight shadows dance.
And dreams of Wittgenstein
In the trenches
Lit by flickering phosphorous flares.
Neither of us know what any of this means,
No, he says, but at least