I Eat Poetry

Joyce's parody of The Waste Land.


Rouen is the rainiest place getting
Inside all impermeables, wetting
Damp marrow in drenched bones.
Midwintaer soused us coming over Le Mans
Our inn at Niort was the Grape of Burgundy

But the winepress of the Lord thundered over that grape of
Burgundy
And we left it in a hurgundy.
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time!)

I heard mosquitoes swarm in old Bordeaux
So many!
I had not thought the earth contained so many
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time)

Mr Anthologos, the local gardener,
Greycapped, with politness full of cunning
Has made wine these fifty years
And told me in his southern French
La petit vin is the surest drink to buy
For if 'tis bad
Vous ne l'avez pas paye
(Hurry up, hurry up, now, now, now!)

But we shall have great times,
When we return to Clinic, that waste land
O Esculapios!
(Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?)