after Philip Larkin



Like mine and yours before,

   Theirs, and my own to come,

Our flow-on of flaws is more

   Or less the root of the sum.
When faults are handed down,

   Where can you lay the blame?

You end up making your own,

   In turn, they spell out your name.
We’re fucked up after all,

   Like a fool in an old-style hat.

Come, know what it is that you will

   Die for; start living for that.