The Ducks of Emersons Green
D1 Hey, here he comes again, Mr Fancy Boots,
already been up the post office today.
D2 Don’t knock it, he feeds us bread and I like his boots.
Wonder what his business is? Late night at the desk,
early morning out, parcels up to his eyes. What’s he selling?
D1 Something dodgy, obviously, computer always on,
he’s always putting out. Shearsman? What’s that a code for?
D2 OK. Here he is, shut up, swim in circles, look sweet,
put a smile on your bill.
*
D1 Hey, a little bird told me, Fancy Boots is a publisher,
whatever that is, he publishes something called poetry.
Who needs it? He does stuff from all over the world.
He’s a dynamo, my informant said, been at it years,
took to it like some sort of aquatic bird to water.
D2 Poetry? Can you eat it? Swim in it? Is it useful in the old
mating game? Does it quack, lay eggs, grow feathers?
D1 No. I don’t know. But that doesn’t stop him apparently,
poetry, poetry, poetry; you’d think it meant something
the way he goes at it, book after book, obsessed.
D2 Yes and he’s always going away, dealing I reckon,
London and foreign places like that.
Not one for the village pond is he? Interestingly if not
experimentally tangential to the mainstream, I heard.
D1 You what? Have you been at that special grass again?
*
D1 OK my source told me he’s got this thing about him,
unusual in a man, unheard of in a publisher,
he does exactly what he says he’s going to do;
no subtext to his quack, no undertow to his paddle.
D2 I get it, calm but active, feet churning, classic sprezzatura,
like you and me.
D1 What have I told you about that grass?
D2 No listen, get your bill out of your arse for once.
There’s hundreds of these poet people think he’s it
for what he does, the publishing thing and that’s good.
It makes me want to send him a poem; something about
what happens if you break the bounds of naturalism
and ascribe intelligent voices to dumb animals
as Xenophonean commentators, like ducks on a pond.
D1 I won’t tell you again.
D1 Hey, here he comes again, Mr Fancy Boots,
already been up the post office today.
D2 Don’t knock it, he feeds us bread and I like his boots.
Wonder what his business is? Late night at the desk,
early morning out, parcels up to his eyes. What’s he selling?
D1 Something dodgy, obviously, computer always on,
he’s always putting out. Shearsman? What’s that a code for?
D2 OK. Here he is, shut up, swim in circles, look sweet,
put a smile on your bill.
*
D1 Hey, a little bird told me, Fancy Boots is a publisher,
whatever that is, he publishes something called poetry.
Who needs it? He does stuff from all over the world.
He’s a dynamo, my informant said, been at it years,
took to it like some sort of aquatic bird to water.
D2 Poetry? Can you eat it? Swim in it? Is it useful in the old
mating game? Does it quack, lay eggs, grow feathers?
D1 No. I don’t know. But that doesn’t stop him apparently,
poetry, poetry, poetry; you’d think it meant something
the way he goes at it, book after book, obsessed.
D2 Yes and he’s always going away, dealing I reckon,
London and foreign places like that.
Not one for the village pond is he? Interestingly if not
experimentally tangential to the mainstream, I heard.
D1 You what? Have you been at that special grass again?
*
D1 OK my source told me he’s got this thing about him,
unusual in a man, unheard of in a publisher,
he does exactly what he says he’s going to do;
no subtext to his quack, no undertow to his paddle.
D2 I get it, calm but active, feet churning, classic sprezzatura,
like you and me.
D1 What have I told you about that grass?
D2 No listen, get your bill out of your arse for once.
There’s hundreds of these poet people think he’s it
for what he does, the publishing thing and that’s good.
It makes me want to send him a poem; something about
what happens if you break the bounds of naturalism
and ascribe intelligent voices to dumb animals
as Xenophonean commentators, like ducks on a pond.
D1 I won’t tell you again.
