IV.
Regarding A Conservative Bohemian
With ill grace, hoydenish almost,
warm Spring now cedes to early Summer chill:
sky pallid, gales; a hypodermic rain.
Now Aquitaine, that jaded roué, lurks
within, upon that spavined couch of his,
all melancholic, greasy-faced, unbathed,
listlessly lending ear unto what rumour’s borne
fetidly fresh, through insulated tubes
warping the data with distorting lens,
pertaining to the latest nigh approach
of race-baiters, a rabid Maoist cult
all anti-semites, rancid sociopaths,
to levers which the commonsensical
would fain were kept from grasp of lunatics.
