When he was doing something he was thinking about something else.
If you are not paying attention, you’ll get run over by a car
And no philosophy will save you.
Pity yourself. This is what you are,
A scrap which the cook at supper gave you,
The cook, the God of somebody else.
Conqueror or poet, you live in a limited box,
No better than Louisa, the typist,
In her room; no better than Jonathan who fixes the locks.
Auden, the lazy, was finally the best,
Too lazy to be a genius through and through.
He would wake, smoke, write a poem, rest;
It’s quiet. Don’t disturb him. I’m warning you.