Far Away and Long ago
I read a marvellous book
Whose writer taught me a lot,
If you want to know what he wrote,
Or who he was.
Follow the clues and guess.
I ignore if he lived in the citadel
Or if he ate cakes and ale.
Perhaps, when he was a boy,
A red pony he rode.
But never around the word he flow.
He was born the same year and place,
That produced Bernard Shaw.
Although he didn’t write man and superman.
You aren’t going to find his books,
In an old curiosity shop,
Nor sailing with three men in a boat.
He may be in The fisher’s soul
But this fisher isn’t old;
Look for him, in The youth of a king
Not as you like it.
His books aren’t a jungle tale,
A detective story or a modern comedy;
Search them in The love of a nightingale;
Or in The air of a lady’s fan
Or in a woman of no importance;
But take distance from The pleasures of ignorance.
Watch The happiness of a prince,
Whose statue had got golden leaves.
His personality was quite flamboyant,
Nevertheless he brighten up The heart
of a selfish giant.
He was not an ideal husband
But he never was one of The boys in The band.
He shone with charm and talent,
And with The importance of being earnest.
He loved reading, but he hated being in it.
He was condemned because his condition,
So he was convicted to be in prison.
There, he wrote letters and ballads,
De profundis was The last one.
Haven’t you guessed yet? Why?
It’s easy, simply open your mind wide.