There are those who would say
That I could use a lady's touch.
I am inclined to agree.
You'll never drink the wine of life
From that rusty sieve.
Hold out your hands instead, my friend
To take what world would give.
Too much of a good thing can be bad
The wise men have been wont to say,
But what they would give to be less wise
If only for one day!
You are a paragon of sanctimony,
You preachin', double-talkin' jive-ass homey!
Aren't you the darling of the drawing room!
So like a peacock married to its plume.
Your head is like the Lord's departed tomb.
Your calculated pleasantness
A cloying, most annoying
Fetid bloom!
Pedro, put that rifle down!
Can't you see, it's Christmas?
The sun smiles on the coca leaves
That deck our merry isthmus.
Vasily, I am thirsty for champagne.
But I'll settle for vodka this time.
Tsar, president, or Führer, it's the same:
Just play their game
And pray for bread and wine.
Mr. Dogmatic,
Keeper of the Truth's schematic,
Spare me all your pompous static.
Take a bride, no two or three!
Make them your captive audience,
Not me.
I sing of myself and only myself,
But, by God, I can speak for all of you!
I never need set foot into your world
(It's bad for my health.)
Need never, by its fatal fortunes hurled
Against the rocks, be made to rue.
Virgin sage and monk, I tread a higher plane
Where I can see inside your brains
(Small wonder, these terrible migraines!)
Sometimes I can't decide, however,
Whether to laugh or weep forever,
Or gather all my far-flung thoughts together,
And put in writing all my hoarded wealth.
You laugh! You laugh!
said the giraffe.
Long is my neck,
But what the heck!
It gives me leave
To love my leaves,
Such luscious leaves,
Who lacks them grieves!
The shape of your nape
exclaimed the ape
Incites the world to gawk and gape!
the elephant said,
fresh out of bed,
Take heart, my lad.
The world is mad.
By my grey trunk,
We are all sunk.
My nose knows no-no's,
Like no-one knows:
The angry clash of bitter foes,
The futile rant of rambling prose,
The pain of splinters in my toes,
And all that comes and goes
With dung-stench ebbs and flows
Upon a sewer-wind which blows.
My hose-nose knows.
Believe me, lad,
The world is mad,
But not all bad.
George Chadderdon © 1995