Having spewed out the hate-filled verse of P. Larkin I feel the need gargle with the waters of the Pierian Spring. So I'll hazard another poetry season.
In part this decision comes from finding an old notebook of scribbled poems that took my fancy. It's been missing for a while but, searching for some old papers I promised someone, I chanced upon the dog-eared anthology. Some pages have been torn out as poems lost their appeal. Others are clipped out of magazines or photocopied. Nothing against long poems, just don't like copying them.
I'm surprised at how many are in Irish (with translation); Jemmy Hope's Celtic period.

So here goes with a short one of Kurt Vonnegut's. I do like 'em short -

INTELLIGENT DESIGN

Evolution knows exactly
what it is doing,
and why.
That's how come
we've got giraffes
and the clap.

THE DECEASED
(Keith Douglas)

He was a reprobate I grant
and always liquored till his money went.

His hair depended on a noose from
a Corona Veneris. His eyes dumb,

like prisoners in their cavernous slots, were
settled in attitudes of despair.

You who God bless you never sunk so low
censure and pray for him that he was so;

and with his failings you regret the verses
the fellow made, probably between curses,

probably in the extremesof moral decay,
but he wrote them in a sincere way:

and appears to have felt a refined pain
to which your virtue cannot attain.

Respect him. For this
He had an excellence which you miss.