Owl Deserts Pussy, by Bob Elliott
October 5, 2010 at 1:40AM
Owl Deserts Pussy
(i) Owl
Perched on a bong-tree's leafy bole
the owl pours out his avian soul.
He chants of his love for a Jumbly girl,
"Her hair hangs down in a sea-green curl"
he hoots, "She is small, but perfectly made.
Her eyes have the glimmer of ancient jade.
Her hands are blue as the Arctic ice,
and her table-manners are ever so nice.
Her relatives all stand round and stare
at the gifts I have sent her, so rich and rare;
the lurex knickers and spontex bra
and the meerschaum pipe that belonged to my pa.
I have worshipped the ground on which she stood,
but it hasn't done me a ha'porth of good !"
The moonlight gleams in his bleary eye,
and the pig and the turkey gobble and cry :
"He has left the cat and her pea-green boat
and now on his Jumbly girl will dote
in the deeps of the bong-tree forest so dark,
for though he's an owl, he knows how to lark !
Yet whenever he tries to make love to his dear
he can only tremble with guilt and fear.
And though he may hootle "to-woo" and "to-whit"
his Jumbly love is fed up with it.
Among bong-tree leaves he to-whits and to-whoos,
he has taken up smoking and guzzling booze,
while the cat he deserted in lands so far
just whinges away on her small guitar"
Pussy-Cat
"That pestulent poet has now revealed
the scandal I hoped to have kept concealed.
My Owl has flown off and left me flat"
to her small guitar mourns the frangible cat.
"He has gone with a hoyden of Jumbly mien,
whose hair is a jaundicle sea-sick green.
He has taken the ring, and the runcible spoon
and the plate that we polished to mirror the moon.
The mince an the quince he has stolen away,
and the fiver we kept for a rainy day;
and these, with the honey he sent as a gift
to a Jumbly girl in a see-through shift.
If ever she should come near to me
I will tear at her eyes and her thingamalee;
I'll rip her green tresses, and blood will be shed.
I shall give her six months in a hospital bed !
If that popsible poet has got it right
when my owl gets set for his mating rite
he is stricken by tremors of panic and fright.
And it just serves the feathery bastard right !"
Thus sang the cat, in that land so far,
in the bong-tree's shadow, as dark as tar;
sang and wept to her small guitar.
Thrucrit
Reader Comments (10)
Too, too rich. Lear is singing in the grave. Masterful.
larry
Delightful! I've just recently introduced my 4yr old to Lear, so very timely!
One small nit:
And though he may hootle "to-woo" and "to-whit"
his Jumbly love is fed up with it.
"fed up" scans a little awkwardly for me. Consider "tired of"?
Needs saying again: Delightful!
B.
Aha! I was just saving the last 10 pages of Critique as Web Archives, so I can enjoy them while off grid, and hopefully be able to make some comments, should I get any time to meself, and saw this!
Bob, we must must must have multiple readers record a rendition of your ultimate Portfolio version of this! WRT discussions of owning the read, Lear is one of those for whom we all own the read, dig?
No problem as far as I'm concerned. Let me know if you want be to take part.
BOB
Fabulous. Love it.
A delicious find on a grey-skinned English day, Bob.
My only niggle, is the repeat of "so" in L1 of the last S. Even typing this convicts me as a pedant but I can no other.
So, would you consider swapping the second "so" for "very"?
k
afar?
Pedantry rules OK!!
How right you guys are.
Anyway, there's now a (possibly first) emendation to that runcible line.
"grey-skinned English day" yassuh! Been like being sat under a wet elephant.
BOB
Ready for portfolio Bob?
What a delight to read this again. Excellent.