We were driving back from Limerick today (no pictures: I snapped a couple of interesting manhole covers, but apparently the old SD card reader doesn't want to talk to the new laptop, and I only brought the other kind of USB cable. There will be a techno-rant coming up later.) and Susan asked me about the poetic form. I've never read The Wasteland, but for some reason I have the last 40% of Wendy Cope's AABBA version of it committed to memory...
In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me--
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.
She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions--
Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair!
The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep--
A typist is laid,
A record is played--
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business--the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he'd met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you'll make sense of the notes.