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The Waste Land

T. Selliott

Thursday, May 10th, 2001

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 May is the cruellest month, leading
Teams to European Cup Final Semi-Final beatings;
But the wife came home, Goddess of the hearth,
Fresh from the Atlas Mountain’s snowy path,
Swan Vesta lighter of my candle,
Clad in Afric’s desert sandals,
“What have you hidden in that sack?”
“Only surprise presents”, she said back,
“Surprise presents hid within this sack,
This sack where no sun shines or water drips,
The sack where wonder and amazement trips,
Where riddle and enigma flow,
Within this sack of perfumed shadow.”
I scratched my head,
Confused by what she said,
I thought she might say she was glad to be back,
I was mystified by this unusual tack,
But then she whirled across the floor,
And blocked the TV just as Real scored;
I walked out and closed the door,
She was back in the Wasteland again once more.

Notes

Just a joke, dear. Love you, Stuart.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-waste-land/