  What shall be said of him, this cock-o’-hoop? (I’m just a trifle bored, dear God of mine, Dear unknown God, dear chicken-pox of Heaven, I’m bored I say), But still—my social friend— (One has to be familiar in one’s discourse) While he was puffing out his jets of wit Over his swollen-bellied pipe, one thinks, One thinks, you know, of quite a lot of things. (Dear unknown God, dear, queer-faced God, Queer, queer, queer, queer-faced God, You blanky God, be quiet for half minute, And when I’ve shut up Rates, and sat on Naboth, I’ll tell you half a dozen things or so.) There goes a flock of starlings— Now half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up And blazed away—and now I let ’em go— It’s odd how one changes; Yes, that’s High Germany. But still, when he was smiling like a Chinese queen, Looking as queer (I do assure you, God) As any Chinese queen I ever saw; And tiddle-whiddle-whiddling about prose, Trying to quiz a mutton-headed poetaster, Why then I say, I contemplated him And marveled (God! I marveled, Write it in prose, dear God. Yes, in red ink.) And marveled, as I said, At the stupendous quantity of mind And the amazing quality thereof. Dear God of mine, It’s really most amazing, doncherknow, But really, God, I can’t get off the mark; Look here, you queer-faced God, This fellow makes me sick with all his talk, His ha’penny gibes at Celtic bards And followers of Dante—honest folk!— Because, dear God, the rotten beggar goes And makes a Chinese blue-stocking From half-digested dreams of Munich-air. And then—God, why should I write it down?— But Rates and Naboth Aren’t half such silly fools as he is (God) For they are frankly asinine, While he pretends to sanity, Modernity, (dear God, dear God). It’s bad enough, dear God of mine, That you have set me down in London town, Endowed me with a tattered velvet coat, Soft collar and black hat and Greek ambitions; You might have left me there. This “vates” here, this sage social reformer (Yes, God, you rotten Roman Catholic) To put his hypothetical conceptions Of what a poor young poetaster would think Into his own damned shape, and then to attack it To his own great contemplative satisfaction. What have I done, O God, That so much bitterness should flop on me? Social Reformer! That’s the beggar’s name. He’d have me write bad novels like himself. Yes, God, I know it’s after closing time; And yes, I know I’ve smoked his cigarettes; But watch that sparrow on the fountain in the rain. How half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up And blazed away—and now I let him go— It’s odd how one changes; Yes, that’s High Germany. R. A.
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