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John Betjeman cannot read his In Memoriam. Not today
Or ever.

So what's the use of writing another jot.
Why, pray,

For he who could best compose one is decomposing. Rot!

His spirit lives in every ingle-nook where England claims the heart
And soul.

That poet so lightly musical, so serious and straight (an art)
And droll.

Whose lines were seen and heard in every church, in every part
Bells toll.

Muckby-cum-Sparrowby cum Spinx, County Westmeath, Cheltenham;

Henley-on-Thames, also Highgate, Bristol, Clifton, Mint-on-Lamb;

Places etched forever in his poems, each one a Betje-gram,
Yes sirree!

We remember chintzy cheeriohs in his brilliant combinations.

Farewell, so long, bunghosky, too−Goodbye to all his permutations.
Never grim.
Never dry.

Well, it's getting time for supper and we've had our ruminations.
This is him.
Wipe your eye.