Walter


The pound was on the stick
when grandpa sold his house and left
he owned expensive books and clothes chic
that he took with him against theft

the sun would sparkle in the heaven
the pebbles groaned under his feet
and at the sight of grandpa’s Henries red
the bulls’ hooves did the meadow beat

he sang aloud - it was an oldish song
that was about a sailor and his maid
a third, a soldier and who didn’t fade
and all the rest that Love doth wrong 

a swallow perched upon the beech
it took it for a lemon tree
a merry brook deliriously rustled within reach
like honeycomb that swarmed for wasps and bees 

now by ! grandpa bespoke a weeling girl
that at her weeling-work he met:
now by , let us make out for sure
whether it’s strumpet or strumpet

lace she bespoke him once again:
old man, my mother calls me whore
I seer thou hast eleven shillings thirty pence
that’s what I’ll do it for

now grandpa was a clergyman who heard this by and fore
and none but from the pulpit lent reply
now spoke: you are too happy for Hell-fire
I think that Purgatory is the pill for your remorse

then grandpa met a farming lad
who bade him the good morning
and grandpa answered: I am not homosexual
if you have heard that word before

the countryman believed him at his wink
and sped the other side
blind for his luck to greet the kind
of grandpa and himself  that never lied

now moon came up and th’ old man for a picnic stretched
sail and sandwich spoon and jam
unlatched the lid and tongued within
just quicker than a lighter’s flame