T. E. Lawrence, 'Diversions'
[1924 or 1925]

"That little beast is playing Bach!"
He said, trying to find the beans
Amid the wreckage of an early feast.
"Posh! - this is too much - give me the toast
And make some tea."
They moved like khaki ghosts
About the house,
While Harry thought of staff-parades -
Duty, divinely dodged.
Presently I found the Westminster:
Sitting upon the floor
In green, commercial state -
A columned, print-stained page bearing
The exuberance of Tomlinson,
Who chattered paragraphically
Of limited editions.
And then I laughed because
I knew he meant Sassoon.
And then we spoke of Forster
And something in the Calendar -
Advising decent citizens to beware of Sidney Lee.
'This book is dead,' it went.
I laughed, imaging E.M.
Choking with resentment
Penning that review.