Which is better: a life of ease, or a life of exertion? This is an old theme in poetry (and art and mythology) but it's never been tackled more wittily than in this little-known poem by Kingsley Amis.
It has a remarkable resemblance to the famous poem "Toads" by Philip Larkin, his best friend. Aside from the theme, they both have the same slack metre and loose rhymes, not to mention the same basic structure. I wonder if that's a coincidence or if there's a story behind it.
Autobiographical Fragment by Kingsley Amis
When I lived down in Devonshire
The callers at my cottage
Were Constant Angst, the Art Critic
And old Major Courage.
Angst always brought me something nice
To get in my good graces
A quilt, a role of cotton-wool,
A pair of dark glasses.
He tore up all my unpaid bills
Went and got my slippers.
Took the telephone off the hook
And bolted up the shutters.
We smoked and chatted by the fire
Sometimes just nodding
His charming presence made it right
To sit and do nothing.
But then-- those awful afternoons
I walked out with the Major!
I ran up hills, down streams, through briars
It was sheer blue murder.
Trim in his boots, riding-breeches
And threadbare Norfolk jacket
He watched me, frowning, bawled commands
To work hard and enjoy it.
I asked him once why I was there
Except to get all dirty.
He tugged his grey mustache and snapped:
"Young man, it's your duty".
What duty's served by pointless, mad
Climbing and crawling?
I tell you, I was thankful when
The old bore stopped calling.
If this theme interests you, you might like my previous post "My Fondness for Death, Sickness, Grief, and Melancholy."
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