Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

For the songs that you lured us to love with Are chains of a decadent art ; And the chants that availed us to shove with Are those of a fart. O legs like the legs of the Saviour ! O feet ! O, immutable toes ! O mute and impressive behaviour Of thy stallion aquiline nose ! O eyes not of lust but of languor ! O lips not of flesh but of paint ! Bite hard, though of course not in anger, O, Stephane, saint ! When the stars of the heaven arc bust up, And the earth tails away from the sun ; Thou wilt still be as ready to thrust up Thy penis, till penes are done : And the boys that come northward from Naples Together shall cling and to thee. If ye cannot ape heaven, ye can ape hells. And so can the sea. O foolish and hideous hucksters That linger by bubbie and quim ! Your days are ridiculous fucksters Are drawn into twilight, and dim. For in spite of the Virgin her limp son We are tinged with the sodomite’s taint : All owing to thee, Mr Jimson, O, Stephane, Saint ! [105]