Classic Poem

Now come all ye who live in England's span
And tell me if I'm not a proper man.
A bollocky Bill, a mild-horned coptic ram.
And yet I'm all that is the sheer reverse
Of horsey He-man antics. Verse for verse
I can stand toe to toe with Chapman—or
With Humbert Wolfe or Kipling or Tagore!
I link my arm with the puff-armlets of Sweet Will,
I march in step with Pope, support Churchill.
The tudor song blossoms again when I speak.
With the cavaliers I visit, with Donne I am dark and meek.
With Cleveland I coin phrases—Inca buds
From a tree blasted. I am devout with Isaac Watts.
I am the genuine article, no doubt.
I drown my whispers in a libidinous shout.
I am hoarse with telling men to take more care.
P'raps that gives me my hoarse He-mannish air!