The Tongues of nineteen cantos now have smote

The tongues of nineteen cantos now have smote
Upon the sodden air. I've changed my coat
As many times, you may have thought old son!
A man of fashion has more suits than one
You know, and if I come up looking different
At each fresh bout, it is always the same stiff front,
Under whatever homespun, twill or tweed,
I shroud my one-way sawdust-stuffed six-feet.
" Still, who is this Time-god or Time-king", you'll say,
" Over what if anything does he hold sway?
It's the first I've heard of His Omnipotence
From all mention of this name the Press abstains:
Wherefore? What is against him? Is he a Nigger,
A Chink, a Jew, or some yet odder figure?
Is he spelled " Time " — does he just sound like that
Only, or what? He must be an acrobat
Who would dodge and duck and not be flattened out
Between the two of you, if bout by bout
One hangs around at what you called your Song .
Also it's none too plain to which belong
The points allotted to decide the match.
It looks as if both Time and you do scratch
The Back of t'other while you bash your Fronts,
And vice-versa. It all looks like stunts !"
Some such complaint would probably be heard
Either here, or later, from our One-way bird —
I know what to expect, so I have lent
My tongue to air this one-way argument.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.