Ripping Rhymes

If, as they say, Fame’s but a vapour Why should a bard put pen to paper? He might as well sweep floors, broke stocks Grow zinnias, or hollyhocks, Or weave, or ride, or cook, or ski Or do – well, whatsoe’er it be – For all his efforts will achieve When once he takes his final leave And (as we all must) disappears From what is called ‘this vale of tears’. And yet, as we are taught at school, Although this may well be the rule, There are some poets who contrive To break it, and remain alive (I don’t mean literally, of course) By dint of talent and resource Beyond the grave, and still be read Long ages after they are dead. You wish to put this to the touch? Well, Hilaire Belloc is one such – As great a prosodist as sage, Whom readers of whatever age May dip into, at any page, And almost think they might be pickled, Their ribs are so sublimely tickled. Unlike Matilda, I don’t lie, As one brief verse will verify Should you but care to buy the book And take – oh – just the briefest look. In person, I confirm this truth, Since, from my very earliest youth, I’ve ‘dipped’, it must be countless times, Into the master’s ripping rhymes, And on it I would stake my shirt. But to support what I assert I have a cautionary tale Concerning one Augustus Hale . . . Augustus was a gloomy chap – He’d melancholia on tap – Just blink, or sneeze, and he’d be down – He even won some small renown For being so young, and yet so gloomy. The child psychiatrists to whom he Was sent by his adoring parents – Such men as Sir Augustus Barentz (Who, it was said, had seen the queen), Hugh Black, and Heinrich Finklestein Differed quite sharply as to why The child’s eyes were so seldom dry – They found it baffling, and absurd. But on one thing they all concurred, One application they were sure Would rapidly effect a cure: ‘It’s Belloc’s Cautionary Tales – A sovereign salve that never fails To brighten up the blackest mood And lift the lowest attitude.’ Thus they pronounced. The boy’s distraught Progenitors then promptly bought A copy of this splendid tome, And begged, upon returning home, Their sullen son to take a look. ‘You mean to read some stupid book Will make me happy?! Pish!’ he scoffed And held his darkling brow aloft. You should have heard them beg and plead: ‘This book’s exactly what you need! The experts say it’s never failed!’ Both of them practically wailed. But did he read it? Did he Hell! So he grew more and more unwell, Sat all day moping in his room, Until, at last, he died of gloom.

Extract from Slightly Foxed Issue 48 © Ranjit Bolt 2015