You carry such
a load of ugliness.
A gash for a mouth,
It wasn't just a concentration camp
designed to commit murder.
It was much much, more.
It deprived inmates of their dignity.
There is a similarity about them.
Eric, and my father.
Quiet men, who went about their lives
doing well for others.
I didn't remove my poems in a fit
of pique as has been suggested.
It was time to cull and revise, cut
and polish, and give some a swift
Ye gods, eighty one!
Who'd have thought it?
Certainly not I.
So there's one delightful
It was cold and wet
and there he was,
sitting on a park bench,
sorting his worldly posessions