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A Parody of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
In the room the people come and go speaking of Maya Angelou—
of the economic perils, and of Barack Obama and Mitt Romney.
The political fog that rubbed its back upon my window-pane—
left me etherized and incapable of making a decision.
Yes, there will be time for a hundred visions and revisions,
which a minute will reverse, until all the works and days of hands—
lift and drop the question on our plate...
Oh, do not ask...What is it?
before the vice-presidential candidates make their visit.
The debates will lead us down dark streets that follow
like tedious arguments of insidious intent—
and before the taking of the toast and tea,
there will be time for Paul Ryan to prepare a face to meet Joe Biden—
and there will be a time for you and me...
time to murder and create—
before they drop that question on our plate.
And indeed there will be time
to wonder... Do I dare? and Do I dare?
time to turn back and descend the stair—
time to examine the bald spot
in our favorite game show contestant's hair.
Oh yes, there will be time for all of us to see—
that our entire universe is ruled by Reality TV,
the politic eyes, that fix us in a formulated phrase—
as into the digital abyss, we continue to gaze.
Perhaps, it is the perfume in Mrs. Romney's dress—
that makes me so digress,
or is it the aromatic candles in this room—
that lead me to presume?
And how should I begin,
to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways—
to try to comprehend their promised ways and means,
in the confines of this dreary, dimly lit room—
then how should I presume?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And after the taking of the tea and cakes and ices,
will either one of these candidates—
ever have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
And would it have been worth while?
Would all this talk have been worth while—
to have bitten off the matter with a smile...
to have squeezed the entire Blueray universe into a ball—
to roll it toward that overwhelming question?
only for the news media talking heads to say...
That is not what they meant at all—
That is not it, at all.
I suppose that it's impossible for them to say just what they mean—
as if my Glade candle threw the nerves in patterns on my TV screen:
Would this all have been worth while?
if after being bombarded by the barrage of bellowing talking heads—
that some old lady, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
should turn toward the window and say...
That is not what they meant at all—
That is not it, at all.
I am not a prophet, nor was I meant to be.
I am not Prince Hamlet, or Lazarus, come back from the dead—
but after all this, I'm going down to the local bar to start a scene or two.
I'll advise the bartender - no doubt, an easy tool—
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous—
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse.
And with it all, I grow old... I grow old—
I shall walk along the beach with the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk along the beach—
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they sing to you or me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves,
combing the white hair of the waves blown back—
when the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in our chambers near a restless sea—
battered by the harrowing waves of a bad economy.
As American blood continues to be shed on foreign ground—
the voices of politicians wake us, and we drown.
Raymond Bauer is a graduate of the Berklee school of music, and professional pianist who also enjoys writing poetry.
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