Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,         Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;     He wept that he was ever born,         And he had reasons.     Miniver loved the days of old         When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;     The vision of a warrior bold         Would set him dancing.     Miniver sighed for what was not,         And dreamed and rested from his labors;     He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot         And Priam's neighbors.     Miniver mourned the ripe renown         That made so many a name so fragrant;     He mourned Romance, now on the town,         And Art, a vagrant.     Miniver loved the Medici,         Albeit he had never seen one;     He would have sinned incessantly         Could he have been one.     Miniver cursed the commonplace,         And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;     He missed the mediaeval grace         Of iron clothing.     Miniver scorned the gold he sought,         But sore annoyed he was without it;     Miniver thought and thought and thought         And thought about it.     Miniver Cheevy, born too late,         Scratched his head and kept on thinking;     Miniver coughed, and called it fate,         And kept on drinking.