THE bees inspect him, but prefer the flowers.
He has been lying on the grass for hours,
A fat man in a light-grey suit.
Is he alive or dead?
The point is verging on the moot,
As Wodehouse wonderfully said.
He lies below the sympathetic trees,
A newspaper spread out across his knees.
It may be that he sleeps,
Under the cool, sardonic sky;
It may be that his widow weeps
For him, in Wandsworth or in Peckham Rye.
Aha, he lives! He waves the flies away.
He is a thing of beauty, I should say;
Not by the formal laws
Of art, and all that kind of guff-
Beautiful, though. To anyone who draws
The bound of beauty wide enough.
– R. P. Lister
Punch, May 17, 1961