“I wave to Tishnar,” said Nod, “who watches over her wandering Princes, and will preserve them from thieves and cunning ones. And as for your filthy green-weed soup, how should a Mulla-mulgar soil his thumbs with gutting fish? And as for the Water-midden’s song, that I cannot teach you, nor would I teach it you if I could, Master Fish-catcher. But I can catch fish with it.”
The old Gunga squatted close on his stool, and grinned as graciously as he could. “I am poor and growing old,” he said, “and I cannot catch fish as once I could. How is that done, O Royal Traveller?”
BURBANK WITH A BAEDEKER; BLEISTEIN WITH A CIGAR[[13]]
By T. S. Eliot
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—the gondola stopped, the old place was there, how charming its grey and pink—goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess passed on until she came through the little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea