Greenwich Village

The days were cold
And wood was scarce,
And we without a penny
We burned the chairs
And shower doors
And were as gay as any.
We fed on bread,
Italian wine,
And many a potato,
While we discussed
The wisdom of
Confucius, Freud and Plato.
And life was lean
And beautiful
And love was young and glad
It's good to be
A Village poet
And a little mad.

WILMA CRITTENDEN.