Classic Poem

Here again is the wizened man
With shrunk and shrivelled look,
Shade of dry stubble, wandering leaf
That strays from book to book.

Here again is the wizened housewife,
Knitting socks and fumbling,
Her mouth with oaths and curses filled,
Her lips for ever mumbling.

Our cat is there: he has not stirred
From his quarters in the house;
But by the oven dreams he makes
A treaty with a mouse.

The rows of spiders' webs are there,
As of old in darkness, spread
In the western corner, choked with flies,
Their bodies blown out—dead.

You have not changed, you're antic old,
There's nothing new I think;
Friends, let me join your club, we'll rot
Together till we stink.