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Three Pageboys
My aide-de-camp on duty,
the young Clarence Gale,
like a mauve lightning,
burst into my sunlit study
and reported laughing:
“Concerning Marcus Aurelius.
House in total panic.
Boycott is expected to be.
Being indignant Count Jocelyn himself
is going to Your Serenity.
And I’ve no time to taste a wine
or to throw my lilac eye to the azure.
I now hurry off to make Glace a la Violette
for the feast in honour
of Ambassador of Marmaland”.
His bilberry-coloured figure
whirled away to the garden.
The door opened wide again,
and the young Ondrik Flyte was ready for report:
“Concerning Marcus Aurelius.
House in total panic.
Boycott is expected to be.
Being indignant Count Jocelyn himself
is going to Your Serenity.
And I have no time to mount on your lap.
The apple of discord is amidst pageboys.
I'm off now to taste Creme de Orchidee,
served for our numerous guests”.
Swaying with the lavender-scented sides
of his frock-coat,
like a swallow,
he flew out through the French window.
In the garden, to the drone of bumble-bees
over the red and white flowers
the infused souls of herbs sang.
And to these sounds the door opened wide again,
and Jocelyn, Comte du Rosier,
amazing gourmet,
connoisseur of exquisite essences,
the boy in purple
entered the room, riding a black horse.
“We, who studied Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations
at your behest,
have fallen out with each other,
but I, Jocelyn will understand all,
and judge between everyone.
I’ll appease the nerves and noise,
and unite all the pageboys,
if only you, my beamish friend,
love me tender,
more tender than all of them”.
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