16 December 2009, 3.37 CET
I had forgotten about Joyce’s parody, but it made my morning.
Rouen is the rainiest place, getting
Inside all impermeables, wetting
Damp marrow in drenched bones.
Midwinter 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
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
Le petit vin is the surest drink to buy
For if ’tis bad
Vous ne l’avez pas payé
(Hurry up, hurry up, now, now, now!
But we shall have great times,
When we return to Clinic, that waste land
(Shan’t we? Shan’t we? Shan’t we?)