This is Mr Larkin’s room.  He wrote
The whole time he was at the Library;  books
He once said were a load of crap - a quote
If used, to earn you disapproving looks.

A gloomy chap who lived on awful pies
And travelled south at Whitsun on the train
Gawping at marriages with blank surprise -
I think he’d got cheap nylon on the brain.

He wasn’t one for women in his verse:
When sex began in nineteen sixty-three,
Complained it was too late;  chose to rehearse
Instead his bleakly flat misogyny.

I’d like his landlady’s real views on him,
And Arnold’s wife (the one who nagged him so);
But could I stand an hour with one so grim
And fucked up by his parents?  I don’t know.