Return To Sender
Given the highly entertaining spell of inclement weather in a paper cup over on Poem Of The Week, ( a quick précis: Eliot was a great poet. No, he was an upper-class poseur. The Wasteland is a great poem. No, it’s a tool of Capitalist oppression. No, it’s a great poem. Rubbish, it’s a piece of pretentious cack foisted on a gullible proletariat. Christopher Hitchens says it’s the most over-rated poem of the 20th century. Ah, the old argument from authority. No, the fallacy only arises if Hitchens is cited as infallible…und so weiter), I thought this would be a good time for Eliot parodies. Mind you, it’s always a good time for Eliot parodies. Let’s breed lilacs out of the dead whatsit….
The Love Song Of J. Alfred Mowbray
Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più.
Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu.
Poi d’improvviso venivo dal vento rapito
E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito.
Volare, Oh!, Oh!,
Cantare, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!
Nel blu, dipinto di blu,
Felice de stare lassù.
Let’s fuck off then, you and me
When the evening is flat on its back
Like an out-patient hammered on crack
Let’s sling our hooks and piss-off
Down the Old Kent Road, hotels and cafes
And such-like gaffs.
Oh, don’t ask ‘Who the fuck?”
Let’s just drop in on the cluck.
In the boozer, the birds come and go
Talking about some dago painter.
Foggy out, innit? Must be the weather.
Fancy some tea and toast?
Fuck me, it’s them birds again
Still yakking about that Italian.
Whodjoo mean, my hair’s getting thin?
Fancy a coffee? Pass the spoon.
Is that music in the other room?
Ragged claws? Silent seas?
You’re talking in riddles, mate.
Well, what did you mean, then?
Lazarus, my arse.
Yeah, werl, we’re all getting old, mate.
You should buy shorter trousers.
Part your hair behind? Behind what?
Make up your bleedin’ mind:
Do you want a peach
Or a day at the sea-side?