Peter Pan
He'd buried his head in manuscripts
And books for twenty years,
He'd kept himself to himself had never
Ventured down the stairs,
His meals were brought on a silver tray
His clothes were laundered and pressed,
No callers came to his stately rooms
To invade his hours of rest.
He'd turned his back on the world out there
When young, and his sister went,
His parents left the estate to him
Though most of the money was spent,
He had no interest in state affairs,
No more in the works of man,
Looked rarely out of the windows
Of his mansion, Maison Grande.
He studied the force of nature,
Tempests, storms, tornado files,
Read books on the brontosaurus,
Mammoths, raptors, crocodiles,
The only women he knew of,
Little girls like his sister Ann,
He lived like a boy forever
In his mind, like Peter Pan.
He didn't hear when the Bailiffs
Took his furniture from below,
Cleaned out the candelabra
Caused his silver trays to go,
Ripped up the hallway carpet
Took the Louis the XVI chairs,
And finally came up knocking
When they exhausted the loot downstairs.
He stood in shock when they carried off
His desk of Baltic Pine,
Ripped the books from the shelves and
Took the last of his stock of wine,
He saw the bills he'd neglected when
The cook came up to quit,
Her owed her three months wages and
That was the least of it.
The man from the real estate came up,
A man called Arty Hook,
The name sat deep in his memory
Had he read it in some old book?
The Maison Grande would have to be sold
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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