The Black BoxAs well as these poor poems I am writing some wonderful ones. They are all being filed separately, nobody sees them. When I die they will be buried in a big black tin box. In fifty years’ time they must be dug up, for so my will provides. This is to confound the critics and teach everybody a valuable lesson.
‘It’s Hard to Dislike Ewart’
—New Review criticI always try to dislike my poets, it’s good for them, they get so uppity otherwise, going around thinking they’re little geniuses— but sometimes I find it hard. They’re so pathetic in their efforts to be liked. When we’re all out walking on the cliffs it’s always pulling my coat with ‘Sir! Oh, Sir!’ and ‘May I walk with you, Sir?’— I sort them out harshly with my stick. If I push a few over the edge, that only encourages the others. In the places of preferment there is room for just so many. The rest must simply lump it. There’s too much sucking up and trying to be clever. They must all learn they’ll never get round me— Merit has nothing to do with it. There’s no way to pull the wool over my eyes, no way, no way . . . By Gavin Ewart —The Oxford Book of Comic Verse Edited by John Gross