Shovel Them Under

The cemetery caretaker is lost
Among the tombstones and the mausoleums.
That is, he’s hidden by clouds of no-see-ums
And leafy ferns. We watched him as he crossed
Between the carvings and the slabs embossed
Like legends in an open-air museum.
“Look here,” he points. “This guy charged a per diem
Of what I make per month. And what the cost . . . ”

He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Let this pass
As all things pass.” I think I see him smirk,
But he’s too busy now for us to lurk
Productively, examining the brass
Or counting names. “I don’t just cut the grass,
I am the grass,” he murmurs. “Let me work.”

Uncle Pumblechook’s Song

Some people say I haver, flop, and bumble,
But I believe what I have always said,
And I’ll believe it when I’m stiff and dead:
A man’s entitled to endeavour, stumble,
Crumble, mumble, tumble, fumble, grumble,
Answer unasked questions, tilt his head,
Insist on larger portions of white bread,
And criticize the world’s unholy jumble.

If I have claimed that small children were vicious,
It must be true. I wouldn’t tell a lie,
No, even though the very angels cry.
This meal was excellent, the food delicious,
The conversation happy and propitious.
Let go my elbow, child. This is good-bye.

Master of Tongues

He muttered something like “ogni speranza”
(Although I couldn’t hear him properly,
It didn’t sound like French, but it could be,
In which case it might be a great bonanza —
What’s French for “who comes in”? Is Sancho Panza
The guy who roamed the countryside with me?
I’m pretty sure he said “entrate qui” —
But maybe that was in another stanza).

You know those Frenchies seek me everywhere,
But I remain elusive, which I must
Because I can’t speak French. They call it crust —
Funny, since their baguettes have crust to spare.
In fact, I think it’s only right to share
The truth: my English also is a bust.