|
I.
GR-R-R—there go, my heart’s abhorrence!Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims— Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames!
II.
At the meal we sit together:Salve tibi! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year: Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: What’s the Latin name for “parsley”? What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout?
III.
Whew! We’ll have our platter burnished,Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere ’tis fit to touch our chaps— Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!)
IV.
Saint, forsooth! While brown DoloresSquats outside the Convent bank With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, —Can’t I see his dead eye glow, Bright as ’twere a Barbary corsair’s? (That is, if he’d let it show!)
V.
When he finishes refection,Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu’s praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp— In three sips the Arian frustrate; fWhile he drains his at one gulp.
VI.
Oh, those melons? If he’s ableWe’re to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot’s table, All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers? None double Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
VII.
There’s a great text in Galatians,Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails: If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be, Spin him round and send him flying Off to Hell, a Manichee?
VIII.
Or, my scrofulous French novelOn grey paper with blunt type! Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial’s gripe: If I double down its pages At the woeful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in’t?
IX.
Or, there’s Satan!—one might venturePledge one’s soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he’d miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We’re so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . ’St, there’s Vespers! Plena gratiâ Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine! |