| Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918. |
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| 21. The Spoilsport |
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| MY familiar ghost again | |
| Comes to see what he can see, | |
| Critic, son of Conscious Brain, | |
| Spying on our privacy. | |
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| Slam the window, bolt the door, | 5 |
| Yet he’ll enter in and stay; | |
| In tomorrow’s book he’ll score | |
| Indiscretions of today. | |
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| Whispered love and muttered fears, | |
| How their echoes fly about! | 10 |
| None escape his watchful ears, | |
| Every sigh might be a shout. | |
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| No kind words nor angry cries | |
| Turn away this grim spoilsport; | |
| No fine lady’s pleading eyes, | 15 |
| Neither love, nor hate, nor … port. | |
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| Critic wears no smile of fun, | |
| Speaks no word of blame nor praise, | |
| Counts our kisses one by one, | |
| Notes each gesture, every phrase. | 20 |
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| My familiar ghost again | |
| Stands or squats where suits him best; | |
| Critic, son of Conscious Brain, | |
| Listens, watches, takes no rest. | |
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