I hadn’t had the pleasure of reading some of Wendy Cope‘s couplets before today, and was pretty astonished by her wit and musicality. Here’s one of my favorites, and not just because it recalls Eliot’s “Prufrock” (while hilariously forcing a mispronunciation of his name):
Poem Composed in Santa Barbara
The poets talk. They talk a lot. They talk of T.S. Eliot. One is anti. One is pro. How hard they think! How much they know! They're happy. A cicada sings. We women talk of other things.
