Ещё Ларкин. Мне на ночь, вам на утро. Эри справедливо заметит, что можно было текст ниже нафигачить прозой. Можно, да. Мне лично хватает интонации в качестве added value — товарищ Ларкин опять успешно играет здесь в компетентного наблюдателя.
Places, Loved Ones
by Philip LarkinNo, I have never found The place where I could say This is my proper ground, Here I shall stay; Nor met that special one Who has an instant claim On everything I own Down to my name; To find such seems to prove You want no choice in where To build, or whom to love; You ask them to bear You off irrevocably, So that it's not your fault Should the town turn dreary, The girl a dolt. Yet, having missed them, you're Bound, none the less, to act As if what you settled for Mashed you, in fact; And wiser to keep away From thinking you still might trace Uncalled-for to this day Your person, your place.
