As he grew famous—ah, but what is fame?—

he lost his old obsession with his name,

things seemed to matter less,

including the fame—a television team came

from another country to make a film of him

which did not him distress:

he enjoyed the hard work & he was good at that,

so they all said—the charming Englishman

among the camera & the lights

mathematically wandered in his pub & livingroom

doing their duty, as too he did it,

but where are the delights

of long-for fame, unless fame makes him feel easy?

I am cold & weary, said Henry, fame makes me feel lazy,

yet I must do my best.

It doesn’t matter, truly. It doesn’t matter truly.

It seems to be solely a matter of continuing Henry

voicing & obsessed.