Fox Trot

Old

Sir

Faulk,

Tall as a stork,

Before the honeyed fruits of dawn

were ripe, would walk,

And stalk with a gun

The reynard-coloured sun,

Among the pheasant-feathered corn

the unicorn has torn, forlorn

the

Smock-faced sheep

Sit

and

sleep;

Periwigged as William and Mary, weep...

"Sally, Mary, Mattie, what's the

matter, why cry?"

The huntsman and the reynard-

coloured sun and I sigh;

"Oh, the nursery-maid Meg

With a leg like a peg

Chased the feathered dreams like

hens, And when they laid an egg

In the sheepskin

Meadows

Where

The serene King James would steer

Horse and hounds, then he

From the shade of a tree

Picked it up as spoil to boil for

nursery tea", said the mourners.

In the

Corn, towers strain,

Feathered tall as a crane,

And whistling down the feathered

rain, Old Noah goes again -

An old dull mome

With a head like a pome,

Seeing the world as a bare egg,

Laid by the feathered air: Meg

Would beg three of these

For the nursery teas

Of Japhet, Shem and Ham,

she gave it

Underneath the trees,

Where the boiling

Water,

Hissed,

Like the goose-king's feathered

daughter-kissed,

Pot and pan and copper kettle

Put upon their proper mettle,

Lest the Flood - the Flood - The

Flood begin again through these!