Impatiently polite, imperious,
Our neighbors only just tolerated
The peculiar clan at cul-de-sac’s end.
We were insufficiently industrious
With lawn care, and our plot was at last rated
An eyesore. How, they wondered, could we spend
So much time sleeping, so little weeding:
Crabgrass spiked brown, dandelions spackled gold.
Of an old German barbarian born,
A sour, thin kid, moping, slouching, reading,
I’d gather bruised windfall apples and throw
Them over the hedge—a broadside launched with scorn
From our blue-shingled brigantine, square prow
Lodged in high grass, underneath long boughs.

A Message from the Editors

Our past successes are owed to our greatest ambassadors: our readers. Our future rests on your support, as The New Criterion Editor Roger Kimball explains. Will you help us continue to bring our incisive review of the arts and culture to the next generation of readers?

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 2, on page 29
Copyright © 2018 The New Criterion |