Perfection, of a kind

Another poem for National Poetry Month, this time by W.H. Auden (my second favorite after Yeats). In this case, it's "Epitaph on a Tyrant" from 1939.

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Draw your own conclusions.

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