Satire
He lifts a porcelain teacup to his lips,
mutton chops ruffled by a morning wind.
“Your sword, sir?” “No, not yet. The view is wonderful.”
Across the gorge, the African veldt hypnotises.
“Bring me a pen, I'll draught some orders.”
His copper-plate trails across paper
as British squares feed Zulu guns for want of ammo.
Bloody and broken, his captain's hand
on his shoulder smote
a polite request and last bowl overed,
tasks done to the last, the flag saved, a try scored.
Every morning a cold shower and a
social watching from his warm bath.
He has a foolish grin and divine mimicry
of The Prout, y'know but
he's keeping perfectly still
where as the goat-like - all arms and legs
on that scooter of his, hands bloodied,
and that timid one up to his neck in manuscripts -
seem willing to walk up the next flight of stairs
even if they were wearing grey flannels, ties and jumpers.
Or those prefects sinking into their comfortable
over-stuffed chairs drinking bad coffee from cracked mugs
they all had to be entertained, all had to be led from the front
into the constipated body...if the laughter stops
I read a book today
about a man who'd made the grade.
No one knew if he was from the House of Lords
but, oh boy, they laughed
when Sir Arthur had difficulty cramming
his bottom into 14 inches. He was with the camel corps
in the desert and he's afraid that that
rather stretched his resources.
Cheddar cheese sniffs the polar bears.
A washboard looks out of place here.
Here comes the Sun King.
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