Garden Party
We are dancing on a dingbat in the fury of a gale while a wiley alligator winds a kitestring on his tail, and we do not have to worry if the fury can’t abate, for the foolish old bassoon man has a catfish on his plate and the streamlined fancy foremast casts a shadow on our fate.
O, the moral of the story is the wellspring of the fool, and the quarrel of the sorry is the spinning of the spool.
When the roses grow forgotten in the gardens of the moon and the chickens all fly skyward on the string of the balloon, when the demons do their darndest to knock acorns from the tree and the long-awaited pirate ship comes sailing from the sea, then we’ll know it’s time to cut the cake and have a cup of tea.
O, the moral of the story is the wellspring of the fool, and the quarrel of the sorry is the spinning of the spool.
I wrote this ages ago, in imitation of the great Walt Kelly’s “Pogo” poetry.