Where I've Been
I took a long vacation, of three weeks,
And that's why no new sonnets had appeared
While I was in Madrid, growing a beard,
Examining the sea-face of the peaks
Of Corsica, at last shaving my cheeks
In Paris, where the thin-sliced beef was seared
But not cooked through, exactly as I feared,
And someone filled the Sainte-Chapelle with freaks.
But Louis's holy relics can't be found,
And all that's left is three fourths of the glass
From 1465. We'll let that pass –
We're sitting twenty feet above the ground
And my poor head is ringing with the sound
Of iambs, not the arches or the mass.
And that's why no new sonnets had appeared
While I was in Madrid, growing a beard,
Examining the sea-face of the peaks
Of Corsica, at last shaving my cheeks
In Paris, where the thin-sliced beef was seared
But not cooked through, exactly as I feared,
And someone filled the Sainte-Chapelle with freaks.
But Louis's holy relics can't be found,
And all that's left is three fourths of the glass
From 1465. We'll let that pass –
We're sitting twenty feet above the ground
And my poor head is ringing with the sound
Of iambs, not the arches or the mass.
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