A Memory


The Voice of Percival
O. Terrible Ostrich

with thanks to:
SID, Ronald in Agony, Don Quixote, ARTHUR R., Twigs Crucified, Sooty & Sweep,THE UMBRIAN OGRE, IRON LUCY, Mendacious Henry, S.A.Häuser

  1. No tree I saw within the forests shade
  2. I've got to fast for fourteen days

No tree I saw within the forests shade
Nor furrow ploughed within the meadow's span
Reclining on a stump I saw a maid
Who cried aloud "The farmed must be paid!"
She cried in fiercer tones than any human can.

No harp I heard in deep orchestral pit
Nor bass trombone within the dark abyss
Reposing on a gate I heard a twit
Who whispered softly "Let the pyre be lit!"
He whispered far more quietly than any cat can hiss.

As the bindweed to the honeysuckle, I twine you now about
As the beetle tried to tell you, you must twirl around and shout
As randy as the Rubicon, no further in than out
But don't blame me!
I saw no tree!

As the slingshot to the giant now I hurl you to the sky
As pleasant as the lions mouth, I beg you now to cry
As hopeful as the hippocaust, no sadder he than I
My heart's a horse
I've run my corse.

No tree I saw, nor murky mushroom spied
No archer firing shafts at distant bulls
The forest spread before me, broad and wide
With cabbages and pears on either side
The cabbage-sprite he pushes whenas the pear-god pulls.

No harp I hurt, nor cringing cornet kicked
No flute nor oboe scatter'd to the wind
No sandwich have I softly chewed or licked
Nor braved the Scot nor spurned the irate Pict.

Oh Joy! I've seen a tree, and heard the plangent harp
Befurrowed field, orchestral orifice!
My bliss is now complete, ecstatic, sharp
As succulent as Lethe's tender kiss.
Death's sting could never sweeter be than this.

I've got to fast for fourteen days
To feed the Lutine flame
I shelter from the sun's intrepid rays
And hum your name.

I've hidden Roger's Treasure in the aisle
To wait for time's demise
I cringe away from any fate but lisle
And breathe your sighs.

My Gallic theory's fit for none but me
To muse in mood forlorn
My garment torn
In growing corn the truth of time I see
The rose has been deflowered by the humble bumble-bee.

With honey on his knee-joints
With mud-larks in his hair
His eyes like silver pinpoints
He breathes th'elusive air.

He flies from stubbly meadows
And flits from plant to bud
The debtor now is dead, owes
No more than you, My Lord.

His name may not be uttered
His voice may not be heard
The Lutine candle guttered
The Hippocaust had stirred.

I've gone too slow for fly weeds
To kill the Lutine calf
I wander where the judge his lover seeks
To make him laugh.

Laugh loud and long, who dares betray his heart
He laughs too low who scans the better part
Of what we now lament. My sterile art
Affords me now no scope, no time to start
But space enough to end....