Cramped, you are hardly anything but fidgets.
We, active, differentiate the digits:
Whilst you are merely little toe and big
(Or, in the nursery, some futile pig)
Through vital use as pincers there has come
Distinction of the finger and the thumb;
Lacking a knuckle you have sadly missed
Our meaningful translation to a fist;
And only by the curling of that joint
Heureux ceux qui ont la clim
Pendant la grande canicule.
Heureux those whose culs are cool.
Heureuse her and heureux him.
C’est la canicule qui hurle,
Ready to tear you limb from limb.
Heureux ceux qui ont la clim,
Cri-criant: ‘O turlútuturle! ’
La situation est grim,
The mise-en-scène a trifle burle.
À chaleur disons donc: ‘Ta gueule! ’
And keep ourselves amused and slim.
West a business breast, North a morose jig, East a false
escape, South steam in milk.
North the great cat, East the great water, South the great
fire, West the great arrow.
East the uneager fingers, South the damp cave, West the
chained ankle, North the rehearsed cry.
Wondered Knob-Cracker at Stout-Heart:
‘Are you timed by your will, does your pulse
List credit, ready to slam like a till?
Can you keep it up? ’
Growled Beard Splitter to Smug:
‘Your forces delay, bibbing at Northern walls
While snow drives rifts between, barring the way.
I am sufficient. ’
The Doctor is glimpsed among his mulberry trees.
The dark fruits disfigure the sward like contusions.
He is at once aloof, timid, intolerant
Of all banalities of village life,
And yet is stupefied by loneliness.
From the beginning, the egg cradled in pebbles,
The drive thick with fledglings, to the known last
Riot of the senses, is only a short pass.
Earth to be forked over is more patient,
Bird hungers more, flower dies sooner.
He went to the city and goosed all the girls
With a stall on his finger for whittling the wills
To a clause in his favour and Come to me Sally,
One head in my chambers and one up your alley
And I am as old as my master.