*** [the organization's measurable depth]

Poem By Daniel Falb

My familiar ghost again
Comes to see what he can see,
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,
Spying on our privacy.

Slam the window, bolt the door,
Yet he’ll enter in and stay;
In tomorrow’s book he’ll score
Indiscretions of today.

Whispered love and muttered fears,
How their echoes fly about!
None escape his watchful ears,
Every sigh might be a shout.

No kind words nor angry cries
Turn away this grim spoilsport;
No fine lady’s pleading eyes,
Neither love, nor hate, nor … port.

Critic wears no smile of fun,
Speaks no word of blame nor praise,
Counts our kisses one by one,
Notes each gesture, every phrase.

My familiar ghost again
Stands or squats where suits him best;
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,
Listens, watches, takes no rest.

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A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
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An English Wood

This valley wood is pledged
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And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,

A Song For Two Children

'Make a song, father, a new little song,
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Balow lalow or Hey derry down,
Or else what might you fancy?

A Frosty Night

Mother: Alice, dear, what ails you,
Dazed and white and shaken?
Has the chill night numbed you?
Is it fright you have taken?