Eleven Pm Part One

Do you know what happened At 11 p.m Tuesday night I guess you must have it However much I protest- But do you know Of course you don’t: The victory of ignorance Come on! I will enlighten you I took the bi-valve Flung it against the tigris And rescued the two At the confluence I danced to the Viennese waltz On the throws of the dark cave And Strauss retained The uncommitted resources Of the un-loved creature Now… wait amo! Let’s see, No of course not! I didn’t do that! Out damned spot! I will not have thee- out! I actually hurried to Katanga My pockets heavy with loot- The mercenary stained with blood: The duplicate is not found live nowadays Antiquity has claimed the villain! Confound you ‘buster’ crab That preys culture sidelong At mating time! ‘Wherefore art thou mine!’ How about that now? Is it possible? I wonder… Sorry, that, too, did not happen For as you know the onion jackal- Pray, not the union jack, Traded himself in Before the nightingale Could sing a lonely note To warn him against prostitution I laughed like never before I danced like I never will And softly sweetly swiftly Sang ‘Charlie is hurt…’ Not that I no paratrooper am (and mark the word!) but that I lack vocal cords and can be fooled all the time by that abandoned neo-colonial hope of the return to my mother country Well, that sounds obscure, doesn’t it? But then that was 11p.m Tuesday By 1 a.m Wednesday, all was different For not only had the nightingale Retired to straw bag But the cultured vulture Had learnt to parrot The earliest military phrase In the hope of pardon When dogma overtook the elusive yok I didn’t stay for dinner (I wouldn’t at 11 p.m!) But I did go out for wine To cure this eccentricity That is all men’s wisdom… Don’t call me wise, no! I will curse you, don’t! I want only to gather with the saints And you with the heretics So we can all dance on the volcano With a view to resurrection! Now- that’s coming to it: To the underdog, I mean, Actually that creature that sold itself To the highest bidder- remember? In the dark ages- well, eh, the dock wages? I remember giving free legal advice And praying that somehow somewhere In the sweet by and by We may congregate And ‘sing blues to negritude…’ Yeah, negritude; I’ve said it already Though you’ve forgotten That Mother Africa poem, ah, ah, ha… Anyway, never mind; I.. eh I gave free legal- Now SHUT UP! For heaven’s sake You are repeating yourself Very unprofessional job, this… You should go hang weeds round your neck And be damned elsewhere: not on our soil!