TO MY BUTTER RATION
(On hearing that the stuff is shortly to be decontrolled).
Thou whom, when Saturday's expiring sun
Informs me that another day is done
And summons fire from the reflecting pane
Of Griggs and Sons, where groceries obtain,
I seek, not lightly nor in careless haste
As men buy bloaters or anchovy paste,
Who fling the cash down with abstracted air,
Crying, "Two tins, please," or "I'll take the pair,"
But reverently and with concentred gaze
Lest Griggs's varlet (drat his casual ways!),
Intrigued with passing friend or canine strife,
Leave half of thee adhering to the knife—
My butter ration! If symbolic breath
Can be presumed in one so close to death,
It is decreed that thou, my heart's desire,
Who scarcely art, must finally expire;
Yea, they who hold thy fortunes in their hands,
Base-truckling to the profiteer's commands,
No more to my slim revenues will temper
The cost of thee, but with a harsh "Sic semper
Pauperibus" fling thee, heedless of my prayers,
Into the fatted laps of war-time millionaires.
No more when Phœbus bids the day be born
And savoury odours greet the Sabbath morn,
Calling to Jane to bring the bacon in,
Shall I bespread thee, marvellously thin,
But ah! how toothsome! while my offspring barge
Into the cheap but uninspiring marge,
While James, our youngest (spoilt), proceeds to cram
His ample crop with plum and rhubarb jam.
No more when twilight fades from tower and tree
Shall I conceal what still remains of thee
Lest that the housemaid or, perchance, the cat
Should mischief thee, imponderable pat.
Ah, mine no more! for lo! 'tis noised around
How thou wilt soon cost seven bob a pound.
As well demand thy weight in radium
As probe my 'poverished poke for such a sum.
Wherefore, farewell! No more, alas! thou'lt oil
These joints that creak with unrewarded toil;
No more thy heartsick votary's midmost riff
Wilt lubricate, and, oh! (as Wordsworth says) the diff!
Algol.