767 Humor poems

Christmas 1982 If anybody made a movie out of my life I wouldn't like it, but I'd watch it twice If they halfway tried to do it right There'd be forty screen writers workin' day and nite. They'd need a research team from Uncle Sam And go from David Allen Coe to Billy Graham It would run ten days in the final cut And that would mean leaving out the gossip smut. And I do request for my children's sake Don't ever let 'em do a new re-make The thing I'm sayin' is, don't you see, Don't make a movie 'bout me Even for T.V. Don't make a movie 'bout me. Don't let 'em drag old Hickory Lake For my telephones and bottles and roller skates Down forty feet in the Cumberland mud There's a rusty old gun that once shed blood Out a hundred yards from my lakeside house Weighted down with a rock is a skirt and blouse A dozen pair of boots that made a dozen corns Trombones, trumpets, harmonicas and horns And the tapes that I threw from the lakeside door Silverstein, and Kristofferson from years before Everything has a story that should be let be So don’t make a movie ‘bout me. If they're hot on a book called Man in Black Tell 'em I've got the rights and won't give back If you don't know my tune you can't get it right I don't talk about me in . . . Man in White. Truth, said the Master, cannot be hid But he didn't say slap it in the face of my kids. A stone is a stone and forever a stone But I'm part good and bad and then I'm gone. There is no sin cleaner than the dirtiest So there's a lot about me that I don't want missed If it's days or years or whatever will be Don't make a movie 'bout me. Aw, I might as well face it cause they will some day So while I can I've got a thing to say I don't know anybody that I said I don't know And there ain't anybody anywhere I owe The I.R.S. gets the lion's share And what is left goes to my own named heirs. Don't let 'em make it in Hollywood If they must, tell 'em Arkansas is where they should. Here’s a hex on whoever makes it be, So don’t make a movie 'bout me. For Love or Monee Don't make a movie 'bout me.

Rinky-dink kale feeding guinea pig Fonky bag uh cornchips plastic shoe Wearing crinkle-fry bastard . . . up in here TONIGHT Wanchu go head mister plinth butt And roll ya dumb ass a lavender Cigarette don't make me slap a freeze On this wart-o-matic bullshit Get me a rancorous tinker toy N turn this motherfucker out

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I When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter," And proved it—'twas no matter what he said: They say his system 'tis in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it! I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the World a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. II What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the Universe universal egotism, That all's ideal—all ourselves: I'll stake the World (be it what you will) that that's no schism. Oh Doubt!—if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee, But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. III For ever and anon comes Indigestion (Not the most "dainty Ariel") and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question: And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where Man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The World, which at the worst's a glorious blunder— IV If it be chance—or, if it be according To the Old Text, still better: lest it should Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude. They're right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and everybody one day will Know very clearly—or at least lie still. V And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there: If I agree that what is, is; then this I call Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical: I don't know what the reason is—the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. VI The first attack at once prov'd the Divinity (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil); The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; The third, the usual Origin of Evil; The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wish'd the three were four— On purpose to believe so much the more. VII To our theme.—The man who has stood on the Acropolis, And look'd down over Attica; or he Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-ey'd China's crockery-ware metropolis, Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London's first appearance— But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence! VIII Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill; Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity, While everything around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard, and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum— IX I say, Don Juan, wrapp'd in contemplation, Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to't, since he could not overcome it. "And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen station; Here peals the People's voice nor can entomb it Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election. X "Here are chaste wives, pure lives; her people pay But what they please; and if that things be dear, 'Tis only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. Here laws are all inviolate; none lay Traps for the traveller; every highway's clear; Here"—he was interrupted by a knife, With—"Damn your eyes! your money or your life!" XI These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceiv'd him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seiz'd the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter May find himself within that isle of riches Expos'd to lose his life as well as breeches. XII Juan, who did not understand a word Of English, save their shibboleth, "God damn!" And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 'twas only their Salam," Or "God be with you!"—and 'tis not absurd To think so, for half English as I am (To my misfortune) never can I say I heard them wish "God with you," save that way— XIII Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, And fired it into one assailant's pudding, Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, And roar'd out, as he writh'd his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman, "Oh Jack! I'm floor'd by that ere bloody Frenchman!" XIV On which Jack and his train set off at speed, And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, And offering, as usual, late assistance. Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed As if his veins would pour out his existence, Stood calling out for bandages and lint, And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint. XV "Perhaps,"thought he,"it is the country's wont To welcome foreigners in this way: now I recollect some innkeepers who don't Differ, except in robbing with a bow, In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. But what is to be done? I can't allow The fellow to lie groaning on the road: So take him up, I'll help you with the load." XVI But ere they could perform this pious duty, The dying man cried, "Hold! I've got my gruel! Oh! for a glass of max! We've miss'd our booty— Let me die where I am!" And as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill His breath, he from his swelling throat untied A kerchief, crying "Give Sal that!"—and died. XVII The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell Exactly why it was before him thrown, Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled. XVIII Don Juan, having done the best he could In all the circumstances of the case, As soon as "Crowner's 'quest" allow'd, pursu'd His travels to the capital apace; Esteeming it a little hard he should In twelve hours' time, and very little space, Have been oblig'd to slay a free-born native In self-defence: this made him meditative. XIX He from the world had cut off a great man, Who in his time had made heroic bustle. Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bowstreet's ban) On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle? Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? XX But Tom's no more—and so no more of Tom. Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 'tis Not long before the most of them go home. Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other "tons," Which make us wish ourselves in town at once; XXI Through Groves, so called as being void of trees, (Like lucus from no light); through prospects nam'd Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, Nor much to climb; through little boxes fram'd Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, With "To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd; Through "Rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice; XXII Through coaches, drays, chok'd turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl," There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass (For in those days we had not got to gas); XXIII Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon: Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. I could say more, but do not choose to encroach Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. XXIV That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis— Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream— Though hardly heard through multifarious "damme's": The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is A spectral resident—whose pallid beam In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile— Make this a sacred part of Albion's Isle. XXV The Druid's groves are gone—so much the better: Stonehenge is not—but what the devil is it?— But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, That madmen may not bite you on a visit; The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. XXVI The line of lights too, up to Charing Cross, Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation Like gold as in comparison to dross, Match'd with the Continent's illumination, Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so—on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. XXVII A row of Gentlemen along the streets Suspended may illuminate mankind, As also bonfires made of country seats; But the old way is best for the purblind: The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. XXVIII But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes Could recommence to hunt his honest man And found him not amidst the various progenies Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can, I've done to find the same throughout life's journey, But see the World is only one attorney. XXIX Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner Admitted a small party as night fell, Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, Pursu'd his path, and drove past some hotels, St. James's Palace, and St. James's "Hells." XXX They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door A tide of well-clad waiters, and around The mob stood, and as usual several score Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound In decent London when the daylight's o'er; Commodious but immoral, they are found Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage: But Juan now is stepping from his carriage XXXI Into one of the sweetest of hotels, Especially for foreigners—and mostly For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, And cannot find a bill's small items costly. There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), Until to some conspicuous square they pass, And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. XXXII Juan, whose was a delicate commission, Private, though publicly important, bore No title to point out with due precision The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 'Twas merely known, that on a secret mission A foreigner of rank had grac'd our shore, Young, handsome and accomplish'd, who was said (In whispers) to have turn'd his Sovereign's head. XXXIII Some rumour also of some strange adventures Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; And as romantic heads are pretty painters, And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves Into the excursive, breaking the indentures Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, He found himself extremely in the fashion, Which serves our thinking people for a passion. XXXIV I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite The contrary; but then 'tis in the head; Yet as the consequences are as bright As if they acted with the heart instead, What after all can signify the site Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart? XXXV Juan presented in the proper place, To proper placement, every Russ credential; And was receiv'd with all the due grimace By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. XXXVI They err'd, as aged men will do; but by And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't, 'T will be because our notion is not high Of politicians and their double front, Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie: Now, what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. XXXVII And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but The truth in masquerade; and I defy Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put A fact without some leaven of a lie. The very shadow of true Truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy—except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related. XXXVIII Prais'd be all liars and all lies! Who now Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? She rings the World's "Te Deum," and her brow Blushes for those who will not: but to sigh Is idle; let us like most others bow, Kiss hands, feet, any part of Majesty, After the good example of "Green Erin," Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. XXXIX Don Juan was presented, and his dress And mien excited general admiration; I don't know which was more admir'd or less: One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catherine in a moment of "ivresse" (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. XL Besides the ministers and underlings, Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, Until their royal riddle's fully read, The very clerks—those somewhat dirty springs Of Office, or the House of Office, fed By foul corruption into streams—even they Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay. XLI And insolence no doubt is what they are Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, In the dear offices of peace or war; And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, When for a passport, or some other bar To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches, Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b{-}{-}{-}{-}{-}s. XLII But Juan was receiv'd with much "empressement" — These phrases of refinement I must borrow From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman, There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents—as if the sea (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. XLIII And yet the British "Damme" 's rather Attic, Your continental oaths are but incontinent, And turn on things which no aristocratic Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent This subject quote; as it would be schismatic In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't; But "Damme" 's quite ethereal, though too daring— Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. XLIV For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home; For true or false politeness (and scarce that Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam: The first the emblem (rarely though) of what You leave behind, the next of much you come To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat On general topics: poems must confine Themselves to Unity, like this of mine. XLV In the great world—which, being interpreted, Meaneth the West or worst end of a city, And about twice two thousand people bred By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed, And look down on the Universe with pity— Juan, as an inveterate patrician, Was well receiv'd by persons of condition. XLVI He was a bachelor, which is a matter Of import both to virgin and to bride, The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 'Tis also of some momemt to the latter: A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, Requires decorum, and is apt to double The horrid sin—and what's still worse the trouble. XLVII But Juan was a bachelor—of arts, And parts, and hearts: he danc'd and sung, and had An air as sentimental as Mozart's Softest of melodies; and could be sad Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," Just at the proper time; and though a lad, Had seen the world—which is a curious sight, And very much unlike what people write. XLVIII Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames Bloom'd also in less transitory hues; For both commodities dwell by the Thames The painting and the painted; Youth, Ceruse, Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, Such as no gentleman can quite refuse; Daughters admir'd his dress, and pious mothers Inquir'd his income, and if he had brothers. XLIX The milliners who furnish "drapery Misses" Throughout the season, upon speculation Of payment ere the Honeymoon's last kisses Have wan'd into a crescent's coruscation, Thought such an opportunity as this is, Of a rich foreigner's initiation, Not to be overlook'd—and gave such credit, That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. L The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, And with the pages of the last Review Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, Advanc'd in all their azure's highest hue: They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two; And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? LI Juan, who was a little superficial, And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examin'd by this learned and especial Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving or official, His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green. LII However, he replied at hazard, with A modest confidence and calm assurance, Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith (Who at sixteen translated "Hercules Furens" Into as furious English), with her best look, Set down his sayings in her common-place book. LIII Juan knew several languages—as well He might—and brought them up with skill, in time To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. There wanted but this requisite to swell His qualities (with them) into sublime: Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss M{ae}via Mannish, Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. LIV However, he did pretty well, and was Admitted as an aspirant to all The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, At great assemblies or in parties small, He saw ten thousand living authors pass, That being about their average numeral; Also the eighty "greatest living poets," As every paltry magazine can show it's. LV In twice five years the "greatest living poet," Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, Although 'tis an imaginary thing, Even I—albeit I'm sure I did not know it, Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king— Was reckon'd, a considerable time, The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. LVI But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seem Cain: "La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero, Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again, But I will fall at least as fell my hero; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of jailors go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. LVII Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell Before and after; but now grown more holy, The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol—"by the hilts!" LVIII Still he excels that artificial hard Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine Yields him but vinegar for his reward— That neutralis'd dull Dorus of the Nine; That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard; That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line: Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. LIX Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, Sets up for being a sort of moral me; He'll find it rather difficult some day To turn out both, or either, it may be. Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian "Savage Landor" Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. LX John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Just as he really promis'd something great, If not intelligible, without Greek Contriv'd to talk about the gods of late, Much as they might have been suppos'd to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. LXI The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain—or none will know The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances; they're too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. LXII This is the literary lower empire, Where the pr{ae}torian bands take up the matter; A "dreadful trade," like his who "gathers samphire," The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire, Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, And show them what an intellectual war is. LXIII I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks; but it is hardly worth my while, With such small gear to give myself concern: Indeed I've not the necessary bile; My natural temper's really aught but stern, And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, And glides away, assur'd she never hurts ye. LXIV My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd With some small profit through that field so sterile, Being tir'd in time, and, neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill; And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray. LXV His morns he pass'd in business—which dissected, Was, like all business, a laborious nothing That leads to lassitude, the most infected And Centaur-Nessus garb of mortal clothing, And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, And talk in tender horrors of our loathing All kinds of toil, save for our country's good— Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should. LXVI His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour In riding round those vegetable puncheons Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; But after all it is the only "bower" (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. LXVII Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few An earthly Paradise of "Or Molu." LXVIII There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think, Makes one in love even with its very faults. Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, And long the latest of arrivals halts, 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time. LXIX Thrice happy he who, after a survey Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, Where he may fix himself like small "Jack Horner," And let the Babel round run as it may, And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later. LXX But this won't do, save by and by; and he Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share Must steer with care through all that glittering sea Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is his proper place to be; Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill, Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. LXXI Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues Is not at once too palpably descried. Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste; impatience is a blundering guide Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection. LXXII But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle: Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon Memory's crupper, The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. LXXIII But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch and ward; whose plans a word too much Or little overturns; and not the few Or many (for the number's sometimes such) Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense or nonsense, Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. LXXIV Our hero, as a hero young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and "rack and manger," And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble— I wish they knew the life of a young noble. LXXV They are young, but know not youth—it is anticipated; Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes participated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, din'd, drunk, gam'd and whor'd, The family vault receives another lord. LXXVI "Where is the World," cries Young, "at eighty? Where The World in which a man was born?" Alas! Where is the world of eight years past?'Twas there— I look for it—'tis gone, a Globe of Glass! Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gaz'd on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies—all are gone on the wind's wings. LXXVII Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows: Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the Bar or Senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles lov'd well? Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents? And where—oh, where the devil are the Rents? LXXVIII Where's Brummell? Dish'd. Where's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled. Where's Whitbread? Romilly? Where's George the Third? Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled.) And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal bird"? Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: "Caw me, caw thee"—for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. LXXIX Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft perform'd of late). Where are the Dublin shouts—and London hisses? Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. LXXX Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? Divorc'd or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is, Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion, say what streams now fill those channels? Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. LXXXI Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers: Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: In short, the list of alterations bothers. There's little strange in this, but something strange is The unusual quickness of these common changes. LXXXII Talk not of seventy years as age! in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individuals under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable, without being new: Nought's permanent among the human race, Except the Whigs not getting into place. LXXXIII I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look. But it is time that I should hoist my "blue Peter," And sail for a new theme: I have seen—and shook To see it—the King hiss'd, and then caress'd; But don't pretend to settle which was best. LXXXIV I have seen the Landholders without a rap— I have seen Joanna Southcote—I have seen The House of Commons turn'd to a taxtrap— I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen— I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap— I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean— I have seen some nations, like o'erloaded asses, Kick off their burthens—meaning the high classes. LXXXV I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and Interminable—not eternal—speakers— I have seen the funds at war with house and land— I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand By slaves on horseback—I have seen malt liquors Exchang'd for "thin potations" by John Bull— I have seen John half detect himself a fool. LXXXVI But "carpe diem," Juan, "carpe, carpe!" To-morrow sees another race as gay And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. "Life's a poor player"—then "play out the play, Ye villains!" and above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see. LXXXVII But how shall I relate in other cantos Of what befell our hero in the land, Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as A moral country? But I hold my hand— For I disdain to write an Atalantis; But 'tis as well at once to understand, You are not a moral people, and you know it, Without the aid of too sincere a poet. LXXXVIII What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is requir'd by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt This—when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. LXXXIX Whether he married with the third or fourth Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, Or whether with some virgin of more worth (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties), He took to regularly peopling Earth, Of which your lawful, awful wedlock fount is— Or whether he was taken in for damages, For being too excursive in his homages— XC Is yet within the unread events of time. Thus far, go forth, thou Lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better!—I may stand alone, But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights; — When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore; — When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore: — Then, through the vast and gloomy dark, There moves what seems a fiery spark, A lonely spark with silvery rays Piercing the coal-black night, — A Meteor strange and bright: — Hither and thither the vision strays, A single lurid light. Slowly it wander, — pauses, — creeps, — Anon it sparkles, — flashes and leaps; And ever as onward it gleaming goes A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws. And those who watch at that midnight hour From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as the wild light passes along, — "The Dong! — the Dong! "The wandering Dong through the forest goes! "The Dong! the Dong! "The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Long years ago The Dong was happy and gay, Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl Who came to those shores one day. For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did, — Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd Where the Oblong Oysters grow, And the rocks are smooth and gray. And all the woods and the valleys rang With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang, — "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and the hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. Happily, happily passed those days! While the cheerful Jumblies staid; They danced in circlets all night long, To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, In moonlight, shine, or shade. For day and night he was always there By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair. Till the morning came of that hateful day When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, And the Dong was left on the cruel shore Gazing — gazing for evermore, — Ever keeping his weary eyes on That pea-green sail on the far horizon, — Singing the Jumbly Chorus still As he sate all day on the grassy hill, — "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and the hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. But when the sun was low in the West, The Dong arose and said; — "What little sense I once possessed Has quite gone out of my head!" — And since that day he wanders still By lake and dorest, marsh and hills, Singing — "O somewhere, in valley or plain "Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! "For ever I'll seek by lake and shore "Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!" Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks, And because by night he could not see, He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree On the flowery plain that grows. And he wove him a wondrous Nose, — A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! Of vast proportions and painted red, And tied with cords to the back of his head. — In a hollow rounded space it ended With a luminous Lamp within suspended, All fenced about With a bandage stout To prevent the wind from blowing it out; — And with holes all round to send the light, In gleaming rays on the dismal night. And now each night, and all night long, Over those plains still roams the Dong; And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; Lonely and wild — all night he goes, — The Dong with a luminous Nose! And all who watch at the midnight hour, From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright, Moving along through the dreary night, — "This is the hour when forth he goes, "The Dong with a luminous Nose! "Yonder — over the plain he goes; "He goes! "He goes; "The Dong with a luminous Nose!"

O, Benjamin P. Lovell, 19 from Oneonta, New York State who appears in the police blotter in Thursday’s Daily Star for unlawful possession of marijuana. The police blotter hangs just below the cast of Hairpsray rehearsing at the suny oneonta goodrich theater where the girl playing Tracy Turnblad looks as if she’s been helping herself to donuts: maybe the donuts we were eating at Barlow’s General Store, Treadwell. Do you ever get an upstate rush? I’ve never been crazy about donuts but these are the aristocrats of the donut world and I salute them. And I hope, Benjamin, your mom isn’t going to be too mad as she casts her eye down the police blotter and sees your name there,You little shit! and I hope the authorities remember being young when the whole world sometimes seemed somehow like a gargantuan donut that either pulled you to its bosom (O Tracy!) or kicked down — somewhere — to the bloodstream. Sweet donut, do I love thee? I haven’t mentioned Brando K. Goodluck, 18, from Manhattan, charged with seventh-degree criminal possession of a controlled substance. O Brando, O Brando what were you thinking? As I put a donut in my mouth I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind a joint, and, in any case, maybe all these donuts are pretty dangerous and I wonder what would happen if the rules got jumbled up and the girl playing Tracy Turnblad slid down the page and found herself in the police blotter charged with unlawful possession of a donut. Suddenly America feels different and I like it. Police blotters throughout the nation packed with donutheads and half the country on the run as college girls make secret calls and meet their dealers in dusty ghost towns, sweet vapors drifting through the trees. O America, where even the robins are bigger, where every car that slides into the forecourt of Barlow’s General Store is a Dodge, where half the population is chasing the perfect donut. Let’s imagine that Benjamin P. Lovell and Brando K. Goodluck, nice slim boys, who never touched a donut in their lives, wander into Barlow’s and roll a joint and talk about those losers who kneel down before “the big one.” They know the girl who was playing Tracy Turnblad. She was sweet, they say, who went and threw it all away for a sleazy bun with a hole in it. They pass the joint to me and I can feel the donuts I stuffed in haste somewhere down my slacks. I blush. Real shame, I say. Mrs. Barlow says You boys want more coffee? The donuts on her shelves have gone.

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love’s name, Or Beauty’s, presto! up you raise Your angry head and stand at gaze? Poor Bombard-captain, sworn to reach The ravelin and effect a breach – Indifferent what you storm or why, So be that in the breach you die! Love may be blind, but Love at least Knows what is man and what mere beast; Or Beauty wayward, but requires More delicacy from her squires. Tell me, my witless, whose one boast Could be your staunchness at the post, When were you made a man of parts To think fine and profess the arts? Will many-gifted Beauty come Bowing to your bald rule of thumb, Or Love swear loyalty to your crown? Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

Things I left on your paper: one of the craziest episodes that ever overtook me. Do you like espionage? A watered charm? My pod cast aside, I’ll walk in the human street, protect the old jib from new miniseries. I could swear it moved in incomplete back yards to endorse the conversation, request to be strapped in. Then it will be time to take the step giving fragile responses, and finally he wrote the day. It happened in the water so that was nice. It comes ready conflated: vanilla for get lost, flavor of the time of his sponsor’s destiny. Be on that sofa. I was crossing the state line as they were reburying the stuff. You break the time lock, the bride’s canister    ... but we did say that we’d be back.

for Jane —ALL  HUGE LIKE GIANT FLIGHTLESS KIWIS TWICE THE SIZE OF OSTRICHES, they turned and walked away from us and you were there Jane and you were twenty-two but this was the nineteen-forties, in Wichita, near the edge of town, in a field surrounded by a copse of cottonwoods. It was getting dark and the trees around the bridge almost glowed like a scene by Palmer. The two Giant Birds—Aepyorni—from Madagascar, extincted A.D. one thousand, turned and walked from us across the bridge. Even in the semi-darkness the softness of their brown feathers made curls pliant as a young mother’s hair. There was a sweet submission in the power of their enormous legs (giant drumsticks). Their tiny heads (in proportion to their bodies) were bent utterly submerged in their business and sweeping side to side as a salmon does—or as a wolf does— but with a Pleistocene, self-involved gentleness beyond our ken. My heart rose in my chest (as the metaphysical poets say “with purple wings of joy.”) to see them back in life again. We both looked, holding hands, and I felt your wide-eyed drinking-in of things. Then I turned and viewed across the darkening field and there was a huge flightless hunting fowl (the kind that ate mammals in the Pliocene). He stood on one leg in the setting sun by the sparkling stream that cut across the meadow to the bridge. He had a hammer head and curled beak, and after my initial surge of fear to see the field was dotted, populated, by his brethren, each standing in the setting sun, I saw their stately nobility and again the self-involvement. We followed the Aepyorni across the old wooden bridge made of huge timbers. The bridge was dark from the shadows of the poplars and the evergreens there. The stream was dimpled with flashing moonlight —and I think it had a little song. Then I found that on the bridge we were among a herd of black Wildebeests—Black Gnus. One was two feet away—turned toward me— looking me eye-into-eye. There was primal wildness in the upstanding coarse (not sleek as it really is in Africa) fur on the knobby, powerful-like-buffalo shoulders. (Remember this is a dream.) I passed by him both afraid and unafraid of wildness as I had passed through the herd of zebras at the top of Ngorongoro Crater in front of the lodge, where from the cliff we could see a herd of elephants like ants, and the soda lake looked pink because of flamingos there. There is an essence in fear overcome and I overcame fright in passing those zebras and this black Wildebeest. Then we passed over the heavy bridge and down a little trail on the far side of the meadow, walking back in the direction we had been. Soon we came to a cottage of white clapboards behind a big white clapboard house and knocked on the door; it was answered by a young man with long hair who was from the Incredible String Band. He took us inside and he played an instrument like a guitar and he danced as he played it. The lyre-guitar was covered with square plastic buttons in rows of given sizes and shapes. The instrument would make any sound, play any blues, make any creature sound, play any melody…I wanted it badly—it was a joy. My chest rose. I figured I’d have to, and would be glad to, give twenty or thirty thousand for it… Then the dream broke and I was standing somewhere with Joanna to the side of a crowd of people by a wall of masonry and I reached into my mouth and took from my jaw (all the other persons vanished and I was the center of everything) a piece which was eight teeth fused together. I stared at them wondering how they could all be one piece. They were white…It was some new fossil. Down on the bone there were indentations like rivulets like the flowing patterns of little rivers.

IF ANYONE KNOWS WHAT IS GOING ON EVER THEN HEY I AM HERE IT WOULD BE NICE TO TALK SOMETIME INFOMERCIALS HAVE STARTED AND I KIND OF WANT TO DIE I’M PRETTY SURE THIS ONE IS ACTUALLY FOR A MORGUE OK SO ACTUALLY IT’S FOR THE BIBLE OR SOMETHING SO IT’S A COMMERICAL FOR TRYING TO BE HAPPY OR SOMETHING BUT I AM NOT HAPPY TONIGHT NO I AM NOT JUST HERE IF HAPPINESS EVER WORKED THEN HOW—I DON’T KNOW HAPPINESS IS A LIZARD IN THE SUNLIGHT GETTING WARM AND THEN IN THE NIGHT BENEATH A ROCK EATING FLIES AND SWALLLOWING THE MEAT OF THE TRASH OF THE DIRT AH, SO TONIGHT IS A LITTLE DRUNK AND OK OK OK THAT IS GOOD SO LET ME BE—THERE IS NO LOVE TONIGHT GOD IS LIKE BONO—SOME DICKWAD NO ONE WILL EVER MEET OR LIKE