Friday, September 17, 2010

Great Poem

From the New Yorker, couple weeks ago. It's by Australian poet David Musgrave:

On the Inevitable Decline Into Mediocrity of the Popular Musician Who Attains a Comfortable Middle Age:

"O Sting, where is thy death?"

Have to admit, that brought a tear to my eye—who says poetry doesn't engage its readers on an emotional level anymore?

(Works just as well if you substitute "Bono" for "Sting", by the way)

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