The sun may shine at Colchester,
The rain may rain at Penge;
From low-hung skies the dawn may rise
Broodingly on Stonehenge.
Knee-deep in clover the lambs at Dover
Nibble awhile and stare;
But there's only one place in the world for me,
Berkeley—Berkeley Square.
And so on, down to that magnificent last verse:
The skylark triumphs from the blue,
Above the barley fields at Loo,
The blackbird whistles loud and clear
Upon the hills at Windermere;
But oh, I simply LOVE the way
Our organ-grinder plays all day!
Lord Poldoodle rises to introduce Mr. Montagu Mott.
"Mr. Mott," he says, "is, I am told, our leading exponent of what is called vers libre, which means—well, you will see what it means directly."
Mr. Mott, a very ugly little man, who tries to give you the impression that he is being ugly on purpose, and could easily be beautiful if he were not above all that sort of thing, announces the title of his masterpiece. It is called "Why Is the Fat Woman's Face So Red?" Well, what else could you call it?
Why is the fat woman's face so red?
Is it because her stays are too tight?
Or because she wants to sneeze and has lost her pocket handkerchief?
Or only because her second son
(The engineer)
Is dying of cancer.
I cannot be certain.
Yet I sit here and ask myself
Wonderingly
Why is the fat woman's face so red?
It is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we have a real poet. There are loud cries of "Encore!" Mr. Mott shakes his head.
"I have written no more," he says in a deep voice. "I have given you the result of three years' work. Perhaps—in another three years—" He shrugs his shoulders and walks gloomingly out.
"Such a sweet idea," says Lady Poldoodle. "I sit here and ask myself—wonderingly! How true! How very true!"