The Poet, Now Mad, Was Always Absurd

It is time
For toast and tea,
Mad Hatter.

Princess does her wash on Monday,
Visits at one otherwise
And counts the hour
In the parlor.

Time and space,
Time and space,
They both come and go
Like shows on the tele
And afternoon naps at three.

What was that war
We fought in the trenches
So, so many years ago?

We tasted mustard
On our meat
And cleaned our teeth
For barefoot whores
With mud-strained knees.

Gigi knelt
As Bainsworth stood
And was blown
To kingdom come.

“Condolences to the mother, Son,
You’re the poet.
Something nice;
Carry on. Carry on.”

Caught in the act
It was all so lewd,
Learning our isms:
Communism,
Fascism, Nihilism,
And, of course,
Their schisms.

Whatever you were, I wasn’t.
Whatever I am, he isn’t.

After the war
To end all wars,
The better world
Fought better wars
For sterling silver,
Better cars,
And al-u-min-i-um
Which, of course,
Rolls off the tongue,
Much better
In the Queen’s English.

I shall recite some
After lunch
Before my nap
When there is time
To roll out the tongue,

But lest you say,
Hatter, old chap,
Io sotto voce sono,
Come for tea again tonight.

The queen is on the tele!