Bony skeletons in coffinwood,
some of them bad, some of them good,
all of them silent, stretched out straight,
hope to get in at Heaven’s Gate.

Some had breasts to drive men wild
or (more important) to feed a child;
some had redhead cocks, to crow;
now they lie there, row by row.

Everything soft has drained away,
hard and simple till Judgment Day
they lie still in their mouldered shrouds,
under the sun and rain and clouds.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences