Let me read one that turns more whimsically perhaps.
He did a very curious thing, he published
a poem called The End, which is really
a story about the end or poem about the end
of an affair, a love affair.
And then sometime later, in the same volume
if I remember correctly.
He republished the poem but he had rewritten it
almost as if he was aware that he had written the poem once
and maybe he had a different version of it
and now he had to sort of say it again.
And that's the real trademark of an ironist I suppose.
Well, here's the first one called The End.
When my girl walked out on me, I put on my new suit
and went to a cafe.
Inside were three men, a tall one, a fat one, and a thin one.
The fat one were two red flowers pinned over his breast.
When I entered and they saw me, the thin one
rose and announced that's it.
And he must have rethought it because here it is again,
the end.
When my girl walked out on me so I once wrote,
I went to a cafe and inside with three men, a tall one,
a fat one, and a thin one.
And the fat one wore flowers.
The two red flowers pinned over the breast of the fat one
but not of the thin one.
Actually when I entered they never looked up.
A moment like this arrives one man
enters and sits down while another
thinks it was the wind turning the door
or perhaps not even that.