fragments of an attempted writing.

“With oleographs?” you say. “Oh, what a pity!”

I've read this poem through several times since sancrucensis put it up, and each time I read it I like it more.  It is a perfect expression of its subject.  In it is a perfect rebuke of certain converty aesthetic puritanisms.

The poem is right there in the Collected Poems, but somehow I missed it when reading through Betjeman some years ago.  

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