Classic Poem

The wind's bastinado
Whipt on the calico
Skin of the Macaroon
And the black Picaroon
Beneath the galloon
Of the midnight sky.
Came the great Soldan
In his sedan
Floating his fan—
Saw what the sly
Shadow's cocoon
In the barracoon
Held. Out they fly.
‘This melon,
Sir Mammon,
Comes out of Babylon:
Buy for a patacoon—
Sir, you must buy!’
Said Il Magnifico
Pulling a fico—
With a stoccado
And a gambado,
Making a wry
Face: ‘This corraceous
Round orchidaceous
Laceous porraceous
Fruit is a lie!
It is my friend King Pharaoh's head
That nodding blew out of the Pyramid . . .’
. . . The tree's small corinths
Were hard as jacinths,
For it is winter and cold winds sigh. . . .
No nightingale
In her farthingale
Of bunchèd leaves let her singing die.