  “Mother o’ mi-i-ine, mother o’ mi-i-ine, Sweet as uh ro-ose in thuh spring-ti-i-ime”— The man who bawls this song Has the face of a spell-bound, hairless rat. Entranced within a spotlight, He borrows unconsciously Another voice from despair. The ordinary squeak of his life Is paralyzed, and fear of death Lends him a tenor voice To supplicate the Catcher. But the audience fails to understand And makes flat sounds of glee With hands ... Death, quietly Disgusted at this blind approval, Takes away the spotlight. Now safe, the rat presents Jerks of gratitude and scampers off To gnaw at his wife within their dressing-room. That squeezed-in bag of piteous Mythologies described as heart Has opened in one thousand people And received a vision Of past solicitude for other bags. The rat repeats this feat and wins Varieties of coarse sweetmeats. At sixty the rat will be a gorged Machiavelli, wondering Whether he has not blundered. Death finds no interest in killing rats And often allows them to live, Preferring instead the less buried souls But the rat has found a fear Within the second eyes of whiskey And relates it to his wife. “Say, May, this thing is funny! You won’t believe me, but tonight Just before I started the act I felt like I was gonna die. What in hell is wrong with me? This booze must be drivin’ me bughouse. Well, move a leg, and get that thousand Faulkner promised you, and stop Sitting there and staring at me.” Death, who has listened with fastidious Ennui, strolls off to slay A negro infant newly born. |
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