C - Elucidating Eliot

"We may therefore formulate
As follows:

The ghost of some simple metre
Should lurk behind the arras
In even the 'freest' verse;

To advance menacingly as we doze
And withdraw as we rouse
Or, freedom is only truly freedom
When it appears against the background
Of an artificial limitation."
Mr. T.S. Eliot

"A few words from our old friend there
Now back to the games, the Royal games
Your heinous, your heinous, my leach
I love you as much as I fear you
I perform both from all towers
available to me. Like between legs."
Hats Off

All the boys that banged me
were into the culture of bookshelves
"Your mooncry is my masterpiece,"
they said. Mastery was their bagged goldfish.
It looked like a withered rubber
"I follow the Italian masters,"
they'd say, throwing the hoop and missing
in the carnival of the pillows
"The best poets command the language
They're like God the tramp with his performing dog,"
they'd say, lapping me up.
Commanders and masters I do
not belong to you - I've outgrown your
crazy noose-limbs

All the boys that banged me
wanted to be smiths
Playing pool at the Lily Langtry

Now I think it must be
the same boys who tip
their old Communist cigarettes
in the steamy caf?s
and complain that kids today take no risks
They're missing out
"Jeez, we can't even smoke anymore."
And of course,
no one appreciates great literature these days
"They're fed a diet of trash."

They crack their cues
about a petty matter: like God
There's just no end, no end, no end
to boys smithering each other
"Bagsy reason." "Bagsy rhyme." "No fair!"
Smither, smither - how many kids
can we give grazed knees and worse
and WORSE
"Kick the ball or I'll melt your skin, kid!"
That's thrilling - that's living. Real risk.
Yeah, let's spice it up for the kids.

Well, forget it.
Give me a base, riotous Shakespeare
Give me a thorny Jesus
Give me a violent video game
God, give a girl a player
with a lousy hand and a stutter
whose 1967 novel never made it
onto the literary scene

All the boys that banged me
wanted to be smiths
pocketing chalk at the Lily Langtry
All the boys want to be smiths
Get them away from the forge
Get them smothered in our soft parts
before it's too late, sisters.