When We Reconsider All Our Footsteps
My grandmother told me on one grand occasion
That she'd oft met the Queen in her youth
But, baffled at finding she wasn't Caucasian
Refused to partake of the regal vermouth
Oh Wormwood! Oh Gall!
It's hardly surprising she went into exile
Oh Weasels! Oh Guile!
It's hardly surprising she ran from the ball
My grandmother's boudoir, all lichen and fungus
Was designed by a gardener named Brown
Who had long ago wheedled his way in among us
Clad in a hideous Alice-blue gown
The imposter! The clown!
Believe it or not he was wearing no stockings!
The mirth! And the mocking!
Believe it or not he was laughed out of town.
My grandmother's boudoir - as I was saying -
Had a view over craters and domes
Where the children of wives of the King would be playing
At skittles, their target ten ill-tempered gnomes
The laughter! The screams!
I hardly need mention my Grandma's reaction
Distress! And distraction!
I hardly need say, it still rings in her dreams
My grandmother's boudoir, of this I am certain,
Was immune to the dictates of style
For she'd spent all her youth swathed in reams of old curtain
Their mildewy velvet bereft of all pile
The gossip! The shame!
It's amazing to think that she dared show her face
The snubs! The disgrace!
Despite all her nostrums the beard is the same!
|TG, P, Roland, p, Bop.
|18th January 1999.