"pinafore" poems
She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time
To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Alice stands
in the room
by the stairs,
at the end
of the house;
the low end,
servant's end,
Father said,
don't go there,
but she does.
She goes down
the back stairs,
down long dark
passageways,
watching staff
in their world,
the kitchen,
scullery,
the wash room,
other rooms.
And this room.
She watches
the thin maid
called Mary
ironing.
Why're you here?
Mary asks.
To see you,
Alice says.
Why see me?
Mary asks.
I love you,
Alice says.
Mary frowns.
You shouldn't
use those words,
Mary says
turning round.
Alice stands
her small hands
in pockets
of her blue
pinafore.
But I do,
I love you.
Why is that?
Mary asks.
You are kind
like Mother
used to be
before she
had to leave.
Mary heard,
rumours spread,
the mother
had to leave,
had problems
in the head,
locked away
so they say,
for a year
and a day.
She'll be back,
Mary says.
Alice sighs,
I love you,
I want you
to stand in
for Mother,
between us,
Alice says.
Mary sits
on a chair,
flushes red,
between us
I can be
I suppose,
Mary says.
Uncertain
of her pledge
she gazes
at the child
standing there.
Need a hug,
Alice says,
motherly.
Mary feels
at a lost
what to do.
Can I sit
on your lap?
Alice asks.
Mary nods
and opens
her thin arms.
Alice walks
to Mary
and climbs up
on her lap,
lays her head
on Mary's
silky *******
smells apples
and green soap.
Mary hugs
her closer,
kisses on
the child's head.
Love you, too,
Mary says.
Our secret,
Alice says,
none must know.
None will know,
Mary says,
just we two.
Nanny's voice
echoes down
the passage
Best go now,
Mary says,
learn for me
at lessons,
do your best,
my daughter
adopted.
Alice nods,
kisses quick,
then goes up
the back stairs
out of sight.
Seen Alice?
Nanny asks.
Not at all,
Mary lies,
sees the dark
cruel eyes
scan the room.
She'll be pained
if she's caught
down this end,
Nanny says.
Then she gone,
her black skirt
swishing loud,
the black shoes
going click,
clack, click, clack.
Mary gives
a rude sign
with fingers
behind fat
Nanny's back.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
Jenifer Garner looked every inch the mom in control as she and estranged husband Ben Affleck picked up their daughters from karate class.
The actress, 43, strode out ahead clutching her cell phone in one hand and car keys in her other as the Argo star, also 43, followed behind with Violet, nine, and Seraphina, six, and carrying a canvas shopping bag.
Garner also had her wedding ring back on, but on the middle finger of her left hand and not the ring finger.
Affleck, though, seems to have ditched his wedding ring altogether.
He hasn't been seen with it on for a couple of weeks at least, although when they first split the pair had made it known they'd still keep the gold bands on around their kids.
Rumors had started to swirl of a possible reconciliation between the two after they were seen leaving couples counseling together in Sana Monica on September 4.
But sources close to them moved quickly to quash any suggestion they might get back together, saying they were simply seeking professional help to guide them through the changes that divorce brings.
Affleck was a doting dad on Friday as he smilingly shepherded his daughters to the car as they snacked on apples.
The Good Will Hunting actor was dressed casually in an olive green t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.
Seraphina wore a pretty light blue pinafore dress with a matching hairband and her favorite purple and pink Nike trainers.
Violet wore an all black workout ensemble with turquoise athletic shoes.
Not with them was the girls' younger brother Samuel, who's three.
The estranged couple are back in LA after Garner spent most of the summer filming Miracles From Heaven in Atlanta, Georgia, and Affleck was reprising his role as Batman for Suicide Squad in Toronoto, Canada.
With those projects in the can, it means they can focus more time on caring for their children as their divorce moves forward.
Affleck is also prepping his next project Live By Night, a Prohibition-era drama that he's written and plans to star in and direct.
The film based on the novel by Denis Lehane and set in Boston is scheduled to start filming in November.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/sexy-formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
At the bus stop,a beautiful dormouse nibbled.
Gnawing away at a roll filled with sausage.
The freak with the tea-bag face.
Let's call her Alice.
Fair maid.
Mousy fair hair cradled her shoulders.
Reminiscent of Wonderland.
No blue and white pinafore dress.
Just a pair of leggings wrapped in complex patterns.
A medley of cream, brown and black.
Fluffy ebony boots of winter.
One missing thing no Cheshire cat here.
The road is rather too hectic for a cat to come and frolic.
Not even a fantasy cat with a grin.
Alice's mother stood close at hand.
Protecting her as they wait.
Quick as a flash.
The bus came.
Right one for me.
Doubt if I'll see bus-stop Alice ever again.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature
of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like
figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,
red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding
teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard
her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand
to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.
She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.
She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and
put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her
mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,
by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny
with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;
birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for
rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother
loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts
and smacks
and never misses.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Alice walks with
the thin maid
to the stables, holding
the thin hand with
red knuckles, the
mild limp crossing
the narrow path like
a wounded ship. Do
you like the horses,
then? the maid asks,
bringing the eyes
upon the child,
holding tight the
pale pink hand.
Alice nods, yes,
I like the black one,
like its dark eyes
and coat. The maid
eyes the pinafore,
the hair tidy and neat,
the shiny shoes, the
tiny hand in hers.
Have you ridden
any yet? the maid
asks. No, not allowed
as yet, Alice says,
feeling the red thumb
rub the back of her
hand. Shame, the maid
says, perhaps soon.
Alice doesn't think so,
neither her father nor
the new nanny will
permit that; her mother
says she may, but that
amounts to little, in
the motions of things.
She can smell the
horses, hay and dung.
The red hand lets her
loose. The stable master
stares at her, his thick
brows bordering his
dark brown eyes,
conker like in their
hardness and colour.
Have you come to
look at the horses?
he says, holding a
horse near to her.
She nods, stares
at the horse, brown,
tall, sweating,
loudly snorting.
The maid stares
at the horse, stands
next to the child,
hand on the arm.
You're not to ride
them yet, he says,
but you can view,
I'm told. Alice runs
her small palm down
the horse's leg and
belly, warm, smooth,
the horse indifferent,
snorting, moving the
groom master aside.
The maid holds the
child close to her.
Be all right, he won't
harm, he says, smiling.
He leads the horse away,
the horse swaying to
a secret music, clip-
clop-clip-clop. Alice
watches the departing
horse. Come on, the
maid says, let's see
the others and lifts
the child up to view
the other horse in the
stable over the half
open door, then along
to see others in other
half doors. Alice smiles
at the sight and smells
and sounds. She senses
the red hands holding
her up, strong yet thin,
the fingers around her
waist. Having seen them
all, the maid puts her
down gently. Ain't that
good? the maid says.
Alice smiles, yes, love
them, she says. She
feels the thin hand, hold
her pale pink one again,
as they make their way
back to the house, the
slow trot of the limping
gait, the maid's thumb
rubbing her hand, smiling
through eyes and lips,
the morning sun blessing
their heads through the
trees and branches above.
if only, Alice thinks, looking
sidelong on at the thin
maid's smile, her father
did this, and showed such love.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
careless that she is a soldier's daughter
this afternoon she is a dancer
Looby-Loo skipsy across the cool tiles
while outside the sun crushes the town
hardly enough of her
to fill her pinafore
feather, skelf, sunbeam in perfect time
to the tune in her head
she holds her audience's gaze
four chairs, a broom and the cat
she notices a moth caught in a web
the window squeaks in the heat
1000s of miles away
sand catches at his boots
his mind waltzes back
across his last patrol
trusting the instincts
which have carried him safely
through each patrol so far
dancing with his death
like some deadly tango
after the first few steps
there is no going back
just like having children
there is no going back
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 1:22 PM UTC
The stables
where horses
snort and move
and grooms work
and sky dull
and greyish
Alice walks
holding on
for dear life
to the hand
of Mary
the one she
has chosen
to be her
new mother
fingers red
with washing
chores and things
but it's warm
as she holds
the hand tight
Mary talks
of cold nights
noisy bed
attic mice
and spiders
in corners
of the room
Alice says
I could stay
in your room
keep you warm
cuddle up
hold you close
as I did
with Mother
in her bed
before she
was locked up
with illness
of her brain
Mary sighs
feels the hand
in her own
small and warm
small fingers
tiny nails
pink and pure
different class
than her own
we will see
Mary says
stable sounds
horses snort
their large heads
looking out
big black eyes
large white teeth
busy grooms
at their work
Alice looks
inner fear
but draws near
wants to stroke
Mary lifts
Alice up
her red hands
wedged beneath
small armpits
mother's love
smells the soap
in the hair
on the blue
pinafore
Alice smiles
feels the horse
smooth and hot
on her hand
Mary holds
feels the heart
beating soft
as she holds
Alice up
to the horse
secret child
adopted
in her heart
none must know
of this love
secret pact
lift her on
a groom says
Alice thrills
lifted there
Mary holds
the groom laughs
in loud barks
in the blood
this horse love
the groom says
Alice smiles
happiness
shining out
of her eyes
Mary holds
her tightly
keeps her there
on the horse
safe and sound
then later
after that
lifts her down
to the ground
as the horse
with the groom
walk away
come on then
Mary says
let's go back
your father
will wonder
where you are
Alice nods
holds the hand
soft and warm
wants to be
close to her
but she sees
by the house
Nanny stand
arms folded
grim features
dressed in black
Mary holds
the child's hand
tighter still
walking back.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
The Sun, at dusk, was ruddy red,
as it was swallowed by the sea.
A promise of fair weather
and a gentle rolling sea.
Come morning we'll be outward bound
as the winds possess the sails.
Then, out beyond the harbor,
under way and under sail
my first mate and I will revel
in the fresh and salty air.
Making way along the shore
with a gentle pitch and yaw
Was that a babe in a bikini
or a mermaid I just saw?
We tack around a floating buoy
and towards the deep we bear.
On the far horizon, bright colored sails
belong to friends of ours.
This is freedom best defined
on a sea as smooth as glass.
Free to choose and set your course
as freely hours pass.
The sun grows lower in the sky
its time we must return
to our mundane working life
for to play we first must earn.
Reluctantly we tack about
and set our course for shore.
its time to find safe harbor
for our boat the "Pinafore".
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
Ode to My Hero (Me)
to be sung by Donald Trump
with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
H.M.S Pinafore
As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP of my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly
When asked a question, my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.
With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.
If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young and old.
For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.
So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!
My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.
I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.
With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.
There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and, in wimpy Dems, I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS harm.
Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.
If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
And then went down for the bus
(while 'twas in motion)
as you'd seen your old man do
and sat at the side
as the clippie collected fares
as she went,
about 1955
year before Suez
and year after Elvis
recorded That's alright Mama
and the 7th year
of your outward voyage,
our life is a luminous halo
or so it seemed,
conscious from the beginning
unto the end or conscious
of the end of the beginning,
at the beginning
the end of life
or some such,
Mr Finn tall and thin
moustached talking
of kings and castles in class
dipping pen into the inkwell
to scribe what he'd scribed
on the blackboard,
Helen peering at you
through thick lens glasses
her brown hair
plaited in plaits
her grey pinafore
food stained,
Finn on about keeps
and drawbridges and moats
and you drew what he said
drew as your granddad
had shown you
draw from life
he had said
take from life
draw what you see,
the bus on its way
the clippie clipping tickets
a machine around her neck
or shoulder,
you thinking
I'll be one of those
when I get older.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
GRANNY SHOCKS THE GRANDCHILDREN
me I always
wore a yellow pinafore dress
displaying my what-should-not-be-seen
or a Sgt. Pepper's jacket
serving as a dress...showing off
buttocks & knickers to great effect
moved from squat to squat
lived on hash and Mateus Rosé
sex?was just...eh...there
I had loads of lads
loads of lads had me
music and *** - the twin gods
forget "I wanna hold your hand"
we were Stones fans mannnnn
sang "Lets spend the night together"
I wanted to be Juliette Gréco
read/re-read THE STORY OF O
De Sade's 120 DAYS OF *****
?morals/
yeah!yeah!yeah!
whatever
we were all of us always
trying to find ourselves
or escape from ourselves
Granda was mad
bad and gorgeous to know
like straying off the path into
the forest of a fairy story
a **** scary beast
my very own big bad wolf
an Mmmmmmmm
kind of man
"Eat me...eat me!" I'd yell at him
*** was that...what
cheered up those forever
endless rainy British afternoon
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
The little girl with the mop of hair
Floated onto her chair to eat from
Her dolphin bowl the milky cereal
And chewey red vitamin pill.
It was still dull outside and the room
Grey colour. She had to get dressed
For school. Put on her school items.
It took a long time to get ready.
Evelyn talked all through breakfast
So the Cheerios went down slowly
Then to the dressing task for school
Off came her pyjamas with a kick
On went knickers , socks and shirt
Next grey pinafore and red cardigan
She was ready only shoes and coat
A pink light coat as it was Springtime
Warm and blossoms on the trees.
Daddy held hands with Evelyn
As they passed the swing park
The sheds and fields on the way to school
And they talked about all the things
They could imagine about this new day.
Love Grandma xxxx
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
The little lights
They effervesce
Caught up in the breath of you
Crisp pinafore dress
And fireflies
I am with you child
At the edge of the world
Where sullen skies ebb
And bare trees
Poise for the blooming spring
Daughter
I long to put my arms around you
Barefoot and tousled
You carry my broken soul
Flickering
If only
I ever
The ash from bonfires
Winks out in sand
Summer evenings
Capricious I danced
Let the waves take me
Ephemeral pleasure
A skipped moment
Gray in the daylight
Shake the shamed from tattered blankets
And sneak back home
I will never cradle
Your tiny frame
Feel the thrum of your heart
Like moths against a window
The echo of a breath
I love you, mommy
Sad mantras now
This consequence
Surrender to the silence
Of life ungiven
Daughter
Resurrected only
As a fatal wish
Moments when I see you
Do you wait for me, still?
TL Boehm...03/21/13
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
The wonders of a morning
Is watching Evelyn dress
She does it as slow as a feather
Falling from a great Oak tree.
Each item of clothing lifted
From the floor where it rested
Pants, socks t-shirt, pinafore,
Cardigan, shoes, coat.
The show complete
The child ready for school
Shows her shells
From her small collection
Ammonite, cowie, conch and
Waves goodbye.
Love Maryxxx
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 4:31 AM UTC
Her fingertips were stained with pollen
With the vase I bought her with freshly cut
Flowers tainted with prints of butter yellow.
A pinafore wrapped with ribbon around her small waist
a chaste smile fashioning her face for the neighbours of our place.
one look at her and I see a fingersmiths daughter.
a girl who outgrew this *** this house, this girl the porter.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Pockets in a pinafore
as mother said,
can hold much more than little hands,
but our eyes
being bigger than our bellies knew
that mum had hidden jelly tots and with
the keys that jingled jangled lay
two packets of
original spangles.
Eventually
the washing having been pegged out on the line
the day being windy
the weather fine
mum sat and gave us treats,two sweets
each.
Peachy days and pinafores
what more can a boy desire?
'cepting maybe
marshmallows toasting by the fire
but that was dad's domain and so
we waited for dad to arrive
from work at twenty five to five.
Kids today
don't even know that they're alive
but we did.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
Polly hates doing out the fireplaces
hates the soot and dust,
she wears an apron
around her waist to keep
her uniform clean
and a scarf around her hair
to keep out soot and muck,
once she's cleared it all out
and dust panned it all away
she screws up newspaper
and puts it down
in the fireplace
and lays firewood on top
and then carefully places
pieces of coal on top of it all,
then sits back on her heels
and stares at it,
the fifth fire
she's done this morning,
well before those upstairs
get out of bed or wake up
she muses, wiping her hands
on the apron,
she takes a match out of the box
and strikes it and a flame
blazes up and she puts it
onto the newspaper and sits
watching it slowly start up
and spread and is glad
it hasn't gone out
as the one in the breakfast room
did earlier and she let out
a **** it curse around the room,
the fire takes off
and she sighs and smiles,
and gets up on her legs
and wipes her hands
on the apron again
until they're clean
as best they can be
and rubs her backside
smoothing down
the black pinafore dress,
and looks as the fire is well away
and taking her dustpan and brush
and matches she walks
from the room and walks
along the passage way
toward the kitchen,
where old Gripe the cook
will await her with moans and groans
and Mr Dudman the butler
will want to know
why she's taken so long,
but she doesn't give a crap
she just wants a cup of tea
and bit of cake
and dream of the return
of Master George from
the trenches in France
and maybe if she's lucky
a good ***** in his bed that night,
she smiles to herself,
well he might.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
It's Monday
and school day
with grey skies
with dull sun
and Helen
aged 7
just like me
stands waiting
by Baldy's
grocer shop
I see her
standing there
pinafore
hair in plaits
wire glasses
with thick lens
hate Mondays
she tells me
and the school
and lessons
yes me too
I tell her
we walk on
underneath
the iron
railway bridge
by the old
cinema
pass bomb sites
my Betty
is not well
she exclaims
(her old doll)
so what's wrong?
Mum said she's
got a cold
and to keep
her indoors
Helen says
best do that
I reply
wrap her warm
we go down
the subway
quite crowded
and noisy
we don't talk
she links her
arm in mine
keeps me close
we come out
on the road
to our school
she unlinks
our arms now
just in case
other kids
see us linked
and tease her
and say who's
the boyfriend
my old man
has found me
an old gun
I tell her
a real one?
she asks me
no not real
it shoots caps
he got it
from some shop
going cheap
I tell her
will you show
it to me?
after school
if you like
I reply
we can see
if Betty
is better
afterwards
she tells me
yes sure thing
I reply
just then there's
a bright sun
pushing though
dull grey clouds
in the sky.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate,
I've information rhythmical, poetical and lexical,
I know the poets of our land and quote their plays historical,
From Macbeth to Much Ado, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with rhythm hendecasyllable,
I understand assonance and refrain octosyllable,
About pentameter theory I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the style of poet Edward Hughes.
I'm very good at couplets and at blank verse very fabulous;
I know the seventy-one plays ascribed to Aeschylus:
In short, in matters rhymical, poetical, and lexical,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
I know our poem-history, Caedmon's Hymn to Chaucer's works;
I can cite bards' acrostics with volatility in my vocal box,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In dialect ionic I can cite Semonides of Amorgos;
I can tell undoubted Aratus from Aristeus and Sophocles,
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
Then I can write a decasyllable as a dactyl or tetrameter,
And tell you ev'ry detail of soliloquies in Shakespeare:
In short, in matters rhythmical, poetical, to elloquate,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
In fact, when I know what is meant by a "septet" and a "sestet",
When I can tell at sight a literary from a prose effect,
When such affairs as odic and idyllic I'm more wary at,
And when I know precisely 'to be or not to be' by Dane "Hamlet".
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern rhymery,
When I know more iambic than a novice in a nunnery
In short, when I'm audacious, vexatious and dilatory
You'll say a poet laureate has ne'er been so conciliatory.
For my alliteration knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still, in matters rhythmical, poetical and etiquette,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate,
I've information rhythmical, poetical and lexical,
I know the poets of our land and quote their plays historical,
From Macbeth to Much Ado, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with rhythm hendecasyllable,
I understand assonance and refrain octosyllable,
About pentameter theory I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the style of poet Edward Hughes.
I'm very good at couplets and at blank verse very fabulous;
I know the seventy-one plays ascribed to Aeschylus:
In short, in matters rhymical, poetical, and lexical,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
I know our poem-history, Caedmon's Hymn to Chaucer's works;
I can cite bards' acrostics with volatility in my vocal box,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In dialect ionic I can cite Semonides of Amorgos;
I can tell undoubted Aratus from Aristeus and Sophocles,
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
Then I can write a decasyllable as a dactyl or tetrameter,
And tell you ev'ry detail of soliloquies in Shakespeare:
In short, in matters rhythmical, poetical, to elloquate,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
In fact, when I know what is meant by a "septet" and a "sestet",
When I can tell at sight a literary from a prose effect,
When such affairs as odic and idyllic I'm more wary at,
And when I know precisely 'to be or not to be' by Danish "Hamlet".
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern rhymery,
When I know more iambic than a novice in a nunnery
In short, when I'm audacious, vexatious and dilatory
You'll say a poet laureate has ne'er been so conciliatory.
For my alliteration knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still, in matters rhythmical, poetical and etiquette,
I am the very model of a modern poet laureate.
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC