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Top-heavy
An octopus with nine porcelain limbs,
A helicopter slicing through the steak,
As you and I stroll to fulfil our whims
With grandstanding, profundity, and cake.
All the while songs of Andalucia
Breathe through the boulevard’s wake,
Promising, of course, to act as a seer,
To lead you to some overwhelming craic,
To tell you that all sensations are near,
Come here, stay there. To cut the orange
In perfect slices, though it could be queer
To taste such perfection along the range
Of reality, sunset, and Infinity
As formulae fly like hummingbirds strange
Bending all sense and sensibility
To that which you know you want it to seem,
To that which you feel you want it to be;
Naught but concrete gliding in the slipstream.
The clouds muster there on the horizon
While tassels pirouette upon your dream
And keenly dull reality grinds on
Screaming ‘Awake!’ as you want but to sleep
And sooth, and sigh, and to see glory won
On Roman battlefields in history deep;
Omnia vincit amor, Virgil said—
But then he would; Romans could never creep
Around their words, around their dreams, their bed.
No; ‘twas the hammer blow they favoured most,
Oft delivered as their enemies bled
Red and white and black and blue, all a toast
Towards the sky. Rainbows, heady, high rainbows
Are yawning at the Imperial host
Would you but believe it.
Well stone the crows...
Should it then just fizzle and pop
Like firecrackers in a basin,
Should it then just fizzle and pop
And leave it all at that?
Should it then just fizzle and pop,
If there is so much less to say,
Should it then just fizzle and pop,
At the drop of a hat?
Depends what kind of hat, my dear,
Depends what kind of hat—
If you get it and it gets you
Then whysoever not?
