Whirling and curling in the widening gyre The falcon cannot see your big left foot; Which flails about the centre and the rim; Mere twitchery is loosed upon the world, The red-faced hop is loosed, and everywhere The sedentary innocence is drowned; The best lack coordination, while the worst Are full of spasmodic activity.
Surely the revelation is at hand; Knowing “what it’s about” is at hand. What it’s about! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of pop culture Troubles my gut: somewhere in wilds of the mountains A shape with many feet and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and sleepless as the moon, Is wiggling its slow hips, while all about it Reel shadows of the hungry mountain wolves. The darkness drops again; but now I know That sixty centuries of fitful sleep Were turned about by just a rocking cradle, And what wild cur, its ship come sailing in, Hokey-pokeys eastward to be born?
Sang old Tom the lunatic That sleeps beneath the sky's expanse: "What change has put my mind astray, What quirk of fate, what gross mischance? It is the Hokey-Pokey song And, oh, that stupid dance!
"Billy and Mary, Pat and Cathleen, Holy Harry, the fiddler's son, Join hands in a circle wide And kick their heels, and have their fun: But me, I can't wait till the bloody Dance is over and done.
"Whoever leaps in bright schoolyards, Lad or lassie, brat or doll, Reeling, twisting, spinning round Until you get dizzy and fall -- I will not hokey-poke with you; It's not my thing at all."
6 comments:
How 'bout Yeats?
Whirling and curling in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot see your big left foot;
Which flails about the centre and the rim;
Mere twitchery is loosed upon the world,
The red-faced hop is loosed, and everywhere
The sedentary innocence is drowned;
The best lack coordination, while the worst
Are full of spasmodic activity.
Surely the revelation is at hand;
Knowing “what it’s about” is at hand.
What it’s about! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of pop culture
Troubles my gut: somewhere in wilds of the mountains
A shape with many feet and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and sleepless as the moon,
Is wiggling its slow hips, while all about it
Reel shadows of the hungry mountain wolves.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That sixty centuries of fitful sleep
Were turned about by just a rocking cradle,
And what wild cur, its ship come sailing in,
Hokey-pokeys eastward to be born?
Excellent, Gregg! And thanks for stopping by!
Here's more "Yeats":
Sang old Tom the lunatic
That sleeps beneath the sky's expanse:
"What change has put my mind astray,
What quirk of fate, what gross mischance?
It is the Hokey-Pokey song
And, oh, that stupid dance!
"Billy and Mary, Pat and Cathleen,
Holy Harry, the fiddler's son,
Join hands in a circle wide
And kick their heels, and have their fun:
But me, I can't wait till the bloody
Dance is over and done.
"Whoever leaps in bright schoolyards,
Lad or lassie, brat or doll,
Reeling, twisting, spinning round
Until you get dizzy and fall --
I will not hokey-poke with you;
It's not my thing at all."
I hope Omar was not disappointing?
Omar was beyond expectation! Stellar in its expertise! Thank you for your participation in this admittedly odd pastime!
Glad you liked it.
A few more players and you'll have an anthology.
My friend Heather started this trend on Facebook ... she's produced a few choice parodies herself!
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