Posthumous Poems/Disgust: A Dramatic Monologue
PARODIES
DISGUST:
A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE[1]
A woman and her husband, having been converted from free thought to Calvinism, and being utterly miserable in consequence, resolve to end themselves by poison. The man dies, but the woman is rescued by application of the stomach pump.—[A. C. S.]
I
Pills? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say, is cool.
Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool.
If I hadn't taken precautions—a warning to all that wive—
He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive.
Pills? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say, is cool.
Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool.
If I hadn't taken precautions—a warning to all that wive—
He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive.
II
You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began?
You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man.
And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know—
Professor Huxley's doing—where does he expect to go!
You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began?
You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man.
And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know—
Professor Huxley's doing—where does he expect to go!
III
Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble— I may say, a peck—
And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque—
And his puppy died of the mange—my parrot choked on its perch.
This was the consequence was it, of not going weekly to church?
Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble— I may say, a peck—
And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque—
And his puppy died of the mange—my parrot choked on its perch.
This was the consequence was it, of not going weekly to church?
IV
So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done
On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun,
Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters—
And reviewers are barely civil—and people get spiteful letters—
And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine—
Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine.
So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done
On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun,
Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters—
And reviewers are barely civil—and people get spiteful letters—
And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine—
Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine.
V
Nay—but first we thought it was rational—only fair—
To give both parties a hearing—and went to the meeting-house there,
At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion.
"Little Zion" they call it—a deal more "little" than "Zion."
Nay—but first we thought it was rational—only fair—
To give both parties a hearing—and went to the meeting-house there,
At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion.
"Little Zion" they call it—a deal more "little" than "Zion."
VI
And the preacher preached from the text, "Come out of her." Hadn't we come?
And we thought of the shepherd in Pickwick—and fancied a flavour of rum
Balmily borne on the wind of his words—and my man said, "Well,
Let's get out of this, my dear—for his text has a brimstone smell."
And the preacher preached from the text, "Come out of her." Hadn't we come?
And we thought of the shepherd in Pickwick—and fancied a flavour of rum
Balmily borne on the wind of his words—and my man said, "Well,
Let's get out of this, my dear—for his text has a brimstone smell."
VII
So we went, O God, out of chapel—and gazed, ah God, at the sea.
And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me.
So we went, O God, out of chapel—and gazed, ah God, at the sea.
And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me.
VIII
And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact,
That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract,
Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see?
Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D.
And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality
Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality
Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars
Like the parings of nails Æonian—clippings and snippings of stars—
Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve and at times
Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes.
And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact,
That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract,
Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see?
Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D.
And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality
Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality
Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars
Like the parings of nails Æonian—clippings and snippings of stars—
Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve and at times
Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes.
IX
And the sea curved in with a moan—and we thought how once—before
We fell out with those atheist lecturers—once, ah, once and no more,
We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,
A reverend gentleman's work—the Conversion of Colonel Quagg.
And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure—
Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel—a word that deserves to endure
Infinite millions on millions of infinite Æons to come—
"Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some."
And the sea curved in with a moan—and we thought how once—before
We fell out with those atheist lecturers—once, ah, once and no more,
We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,
A reverend gentleman's work—the Conversion of Colonel Quagg.
And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure—
Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel—a word that deserves to endure
Infinite millions on millions of infinite Æons to come—
"Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some."
X
And duty, said I, distinctly points out—and vocation, said he,
Demands as distinctly—that I should kill you, and that you should kill me.
The reason is obvious—we cannot exist without creeds—who can?
So we went to the chemist's—a highly respectable church-going man—
And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so?—Wait,
It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as Fate.
Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,
But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.
(I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man.)
And duty, said I, distinctly points out—and vocation, said he,
Demands as distinctly—that I should kill you, and that you should kill me.
The reason is obvious—we cannot exist without creeds—who can?
So we went to the chemist's—a highly respectable church-going man—
And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so?—Wait,
It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as Fate.
Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,
But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.
(I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man.)
XI
I meant of course to go with him—as far as I pleased—but first
To see how my old man liked it—I thought perhaps he might burst.
I didn't wish it—but still it's a blessed release for a wife—
And he saw that I thought so—and grinned in derision—and threatened my life
If I made wry faces—and so I took just a sip—and he—
Well—you know how it ended—he didn't get over me.
I meant of course to go with him—as far as I pleased—but first
To see how my old man liked it—I thought perhaps he might burst.
I didn't wish it—but still it's a blessed release for a wife—
And he saw that I thought so—and grinned in derision—and threatened my life
If I made wry faces—and so I took just a sip—and he—
Well—you know how it ended—he didn't get over me.
XII
Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse.
He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.
"Never do it again?" Why certainly not. You don't
Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow—there—I won't.
Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse.
He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.
"Never do it again?" Why certainly not. You don't
Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow—there—I won't.
- ↑ A parody of Tennyson's Despair.