(The fourteenth of the Black Hole Ballads)
(With apologies to
Cotton skin, derelict, black,
Painted with witches’ own brew,
Crumpled and dusty and slack,
Rusty and greenish and blue;
Hark to its owner’s “pooh pooh”,
Picture above it two damp
And questioning eyes fixed on you —
This was our pompous Dook’s gamp!
See how they come at the sound
Thronging the old gateway through,
Fags all about on the ground,
Seniors inquisitive too;
Formed in a curious queue,
Everyone’s tongue licks a stamp
Asking us what we shall do
With this thing, our pompous Dook’s gamp!
Ah, but its age is a fact
That will long be obscured, voyez-vous.
Its cover all faded and cracked
Shows it once was a friend, tried and true.
Oh, what with this wreck shall we do?
Shall we drop it and then on it stamp?
What shall we take for our cue
To ruin our pompous Dook’s gamp?
Where are the secrets it knew?
Plots from the learned one’s camp;
…But where is the pompous Dook too?
This was the pompous Dook’s gamp!