Louise, lying half dressed on a hideabed, said
she wasn’t going but the other insisted, so they all went
and inquired for the boat to the Isle.
They expected a dog with a magnificent hairdo
and a boy balleting over a roof, a circular saw
(buzzing, its affect).
Instead, they found blooming Furze . . . a low Water
Water. . . one Nymph of Fountain, swans ruminating,
ditto donkeys, men and women going gingerly along.
The wind threw a hissy fit and Louise grew vexed
and tired. These are not little instances, she said,
but possible outcomes of a story that cannot include us
(each to be ticked off in turn with an x’ed “Yes, go ahead”
or an absent “No, not yet”).
Since the tale would advance without them,
she suggested they procure some fatal scissors
and cut the thread that held them there.
Does Mrs. S. cut bread and butter neatly as ever?
the other asked. And Ham cried out, à propos of nothing,
For God’s Sake, let us sit upon the Ground!