The Best (Anonymous) Poem in English, Ever.

400 years ago, a brazenly braggadocious begging ‘bedlamite’ possibly penned a poem so incantatorily-poignant, so wonder-woundedly-written, so symmetrically and cognitively bruising, that it demands to be memorized and chanted aloud. Let's dive into the song of Tom O'Bedlam. ⇓ ⇓ ⇓

Tom O'Bedlam's Song I. From the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, The spirit that stands by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye, That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken, Nor wander from your selves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon, While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

II. Of thirty bare years have I Twice twenty been enragèd, And of forty been three times fifteen In durance soundly cagèd On the lordly lofts of Bedlam, With stubble soft and dainty, Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding-dong, With wholesome hunger plenty, And now I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

III. With a thought I took for Maudlin And a cruse of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all, I befell into this dotage. I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I never wakèd, Till the roguish boy of love where I lay Me found and stript me nakèd. And now I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

IV. When I short have shorn my sow's face And swigged my horny barrel, In an oaken inn I pound my skin As a suit of gilt apparel; The moon's my constant mistress, And the lowly owl my marrow; The flaming drake and the night crow make Me music to my sorrow. While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

V. The palsy plagues my pulses When I prig your pigs or pullen, Your culvers take, or matchless make Your Chanticleer or Sullen. When I want provant with Humphrey I sup, and when benighted, I repose in Paul's with waking souls Yet never am affrighted. But I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

VI. I know more than Apollo, For oft, when he lies sleeping I see the stars at bloody wars In the wounded welkin weeping; The moon embrace her shepherd, And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly Farrier. While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

VII. The gypsies, Snap and Pedro, Are none of Tom's comradoes, The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn, And the roaring boy's bravadoes. The meek, the white, the gentle Me handle, touch, and spare not; But those that cross Tom Rynosseros Do what the panther dare not. Although I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.

VIII. With a host of furious fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander. By a knight of ghosts and shadows I summoned am to tourney Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end: Methinks it is no journey. Yet will I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing. --------------------------------------- Original Harold Bloom interview: https://youtu.be/EVWiwd0P0c0?si=WkhOdDTNrPwp14WS

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00:00 Intro 05:17 Verse I. 08:18 Verse II. 11:04 Verse III. 12:31 Verse IV. 14:48 verse V. 17:00 Verse VI. 19:23 Verse VII. 22:38 Verse VII. 25:29 Concluding Thoughts