These Are The Days

These are the days of throwing dice,

of servant masters, cat-chasing mice.

The conical cap is donned by all,

pilleus, cap of fools.

These are the days.

On the fourth day of Christmastide,

choose, choose!

Ride Herod’s Pig or the Yule Goat,

as innocent babes are the saints

of Childermas.

THESE are the days.

Catullus knows it,

he writes of love

with his skin inside out,

but the best of days are these.

We are Topsy and Turvy

twins of twelfth-nightery.

These ARE the days.

These are the days of loaded dice,

and monied masters of timid mice

the conical cap, one-size fits all:

pilleus, cap of fools.

At the third time of asking us,

choose, choose!

Take Donald, duck and cover, hope

as bouffant fools join hands

across the water.

What days are these...