Waste Paper: A Poem of Profound Insignificance

Written 1922


        
     I

     Out of the reaches of illimitable night 
     The blazing planet grew, and forc'd to life 
     Unending cycles of progressive strife 
     And strange mutations of undying light 
     And boresome books, than hell's own self more trite 
     And thoughts repeated and become a blight, 
     And cheap rum-hounds with moonshine hootch made tight, 
     And quite contrite to see the flight of fright so bright 
     I used to ride my bicycle in the night 
     With a dandy acetylene lantern that cost $3.00 
     In the evening, by the moonlight, you can hear those darkies singing 
     Meet me tonight - in dreamland... BAH! 
     I used to sit on the stairs of the house where I was born 
     After we left it but before it was sold 
     And play on a zobo with two other boys. 
     We called ourselves the Blackstone Military Band 
     Won't you come home, Bill Bailey, won't you come home? 
     In the spring of the year, in the silver rain 
     When petal by petal the blossoms fall 
     And the mocking birds call 
     And the whippoorwill sings, Marguerite. 
     The first cinema show in our town opened in 1906 
     At the old Olympic, which was then call'd Park, 
     And moving beams shot weirdly thro' the dark 
     And spit tobacco seldom hit the mark. 
     Have you read Dickens' American Notes? 
     My great-great-grandfather was born in a white house 
     Under green trees in the country 
     And he used to believe in religion and the weather. 

     II

     "Shantih, shantih, shantih"..."Shanty House" 
     Was the name of a novel by I forget whom 
     Published serially in the "All-Story Weekly" 
     Before it was a weekly. Advt. 
     Disillusion is wonderful, I've been told, 
     And I take quinine to stop a cold 
     But it makes my ears... always... 
     Always ringing in my ears... 
     It is the ghost of the Jew I murdered that Christmas day 
     Because he played "Three O'Clock in the Morning" in the flat above me... 
     Three O'Clock in the morning, I've danc'd the whole night through 
     Dancing on the graves in the graveyard 
     Where life is buried; life and beauty 
     Life and art and love and duty 
     Ah, there, sweet cutie. 
     Stung! 
     Out of the night that covers me 
     Black as the pit from pole to pole 
     I never quote things straight except by accident. 
     Sophistication! Sophistication! 
     You are the idol of our nation 
     Each fellow has 
     Fallen for jazz 
     And we'll give the past a merry razz 
     Thro' the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber 
     And fellow-guestship with the glutless worm. 
     Next stop is 57th St. - 57th St. the next stop. 
     Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring, 
     And the governor-general of Canada is Lord Byng 
     Whose ancestor was shot or hung, 
     I forget which, the good die young. 
     Here's to your ripe old age, 
     Copyright, 1847, by Joseph Miner, 
     Entered according to act of Congress. 

     III

     In the office of the librarian of Congress 
     America was discovered in 1492 
     This way out. 
     No, lady, you gotta change at Washington St. to the Everett train. 
     Out in the rain on the elevated 
     Crated, sated, all mismated. 
     Twelve seats on this bench, 
     How quaint. 
     In a shady nook, beside a brook, two lovers stroll along. 
     Express to Park Ave., Car Following. 
     No, we had it cleaned with the sand blast. 
     I know it ought to be torn down. 
     Before the bar of a saloon there stood a reckless crew, 
     When one said to another, "Jack, this message came for you." 
     "It may be from a sweetheart, boys," said someone in the crowd, 
     And here the words are missing... but Jack cried out aloud: 
     "It's only a message from home, sweet home, 
     From loved ones down on the farm 
     Fond wife and mother, sister and brother..." 
     Bootleggers all and you're another 
     In the shade of the old apple tree 
     'Neath the old cherry tree sweet Marie 
     The Conchologist's First Book 
     By Edgar Allan Poe 
     Stubbed his toe 
     On a broken brick that didn't show 
     Or a banana peel 
     In the fifth reel 
     By George Creel 
     It is to laugh 
     And quaff 
     It makes you stout and hale 
     And all my days I'll sing the praise 
     Of Ivory Soap 
     Have you a little T. S. Eliot in your house? 

     IV

     The stag at eve had drunk his fill 
     The thirsty hart look'd up the hill 
     And craned his neck just as a feeler 
     To advertise the Double-Dealer. 
     William Congreve was a gentleman 
     O art what sins are committed in thy name 
     For tawdry fame and fleeting flame 
     And everything, ain't dat a shame? 
     Mah Creole Belle, ah lubs yo' well; 
     Aroun' mah heart you hab cast a spell 
     But I can't learn to spell pseudocracy 
     Because there ain't no such word. 
     And I says to Lizzie, if Joe was my feller 
     I'd teach him to go to dances with that 
     Rat, bat, cat, hat, flat, plat, fat 
     Fry the fat, fat the fry 
     You'll be a drug-store by and by. 
     Get the hook! 
     Above the lines of brooding hills 
     Rose spires that reeked of nameless ills, 
     And ghastly shone upon the sight 
     In ev'ry flash of lurid light 
     To be continued. 
     No smoking. 
     Smoking on four rear seats. 
     Fare win return to 5 cents after August 1st 
     Except outside the Cleveland city limits. 
     In the ghoul-haunted Woodland of Weir 
     Strangers pause to shed a tear; 
     Henry Fielding wrote "Tom Jones" 
     And cursed be he that moves my bones. 
     I saw the Leonard-Tendler fight 
     Farewell, farewell, O go to hell. 
     Nobody home 
     In the shantih. 

Explanatory Notes:

This poem is a parody of T. S. Elliot's The Waste Land, and mondernist poetry in general, which Lovecraft referred to as a "practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and scraps in general."


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