WH Auden (1907 – 1973) wrote a poem Epitaph on a Tyrant that found its way onto the side of a carriage on the Northern Line Tube, part of London’s Metro system.

The poems are part of a long-standing effort to bring a bit of culture to the commute and just occasionally they catch the eye and make a person think. Maybe not so much now that everyone has a mobile to grab their attention, Just enough.

Epitaph on a Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,

His own definition, his own kind

And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;

Certainty, small words, easy solutions to complex problems

He knew human folly like the back of his hand,

Someone to follow, someone else to blame,

And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;

A mob, a troll militia where sticks and stones became bullets and guns

When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,

And some knew no better, but plenty of them did and turned their faces away

And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Never his children, not on his streets.

Our children, our streets.

From Another Time by W. H. Auden, published by Random House. Copyright © 1940 W. H. Auden, renewed by The Estate of W. H. Auden.