Dylan Thomas

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“Poetry-Shmoetry.”

~ Oscar Wilde on Alcohol

For those without comedic tastes, the so-called experts at Wikipedia have an article about Dylan Thomas.

By the time this photograph of his birthplace had been taken, it was already too late for Thomas.

Dylan Thomas (Aug 3. Wales-New York) Born in the midst of Swansea, Dylan Thomas was a practicing alcoholic Welshman who took his name from Bob Dylan. From time to time had a problem with poetry. The young Dylan was captivated from an early age by the light playing off a pint of real ale, many believing this was an early influence for his poem "Drink up that pint in the good light" which ended with the immortal line "Rage, rage, against the liquidised shite".

[edit] Early Life

For Thomas, poetry first reared its ugly head at an early age. Unable to combat his impulses, Dylan found himself withdrawn to a shed where he would spend his time feeding his habit, until at one stage he was finishing off a poem a day. All this poetry was having an effect on his drinking, which for much of his youth, suffered because of his uncontrollable love for the evils of the written word.

[edit] Middle Years

During his middle years, Thomas progressed into a fully fledged poet, even though he couldn't fly. He who would learn to fly must first learn to stand and walk. One cannot fly into flying. Many warned him off this treacherous path, Dylan would not listen to reason. "I won't listen to reason!" he would say. As the years went bye, he was paraded as a warning to young people at such notorious venues as Oxford and Cambridge (both hotbeds of poetry) but even this humiliation could do nothing to aver Thomas from his all consuming passion for poetry. Eventually the poetry would claim his life, when he jumped off the white cliffs of dover and remembered that he still couldn't fly. Water's pretty daggone hard when you belly flop from 400 feet.

[edit] Later Years

There were not many later years left for Dylan. His poetry obsession had all but destroyed what boozing talent he had, leaving him a hollow, shattered wreck of a boozer. It was a sad end for this truly great Welshman that he even had the worse misfortune to die in some dingy city in America, far from the sheep of his homeland. His last words were, "I've written eighteen straight poems, I think that is the record."

[edit] Legacy

Has been an inspiration to many to give up nancy boy poetry and concentrate their talents on boozing and looking at large breasted women.