One day over the course of a week or so,
all the art ever made by fairies
became invisible to straights,
starting with the Sistine Chapel.
It was mid-July, and thousands of riled-up visitors
demanded an apocalypse or their money back,
although it was noticed certain persons
continued to point and giggle at the ceiling
— for the fairies could still see perfectly well.
Then the Last Supper went.
And some noted art historians tried to get back their vision
by clumsily attempting a gross indecency or two,
and traffic in forged fairy papers became a nightmare.
But nothing worked
— including the ethically dubious practice
of tempting real fairies to simulate
the shapes of the Elgin marbles.
And then to indelible effect
a Tchaikovsky symphony disappeared
in the middle of Avery Fisher Hall,
but for a piping fairy here and there
who could still read the music on the page
and one panicky but determined violin.
And the bins of Sam Goody bulged
with the unsold silent discs of Broadway hits,
and hum-along fairies ruled the Met,
and Take-a-fairy-to-Tanglewood clubs were formed,
in case any Brahms or Ravel was played,
and the first Easter passed without even one Messiah .
And then in the classroom of our days
the fairy voices died in mid-pronunciation. So:
— I taste a liquor never brewed
from tankardsÔÇô,
— The mass of men lead livesÔÇô
ÔÇô,
— A rose is a roseÔÇô,
— They told me to take a streetcarÔÇô,
— Out of the cradleÔÇô,
— Call meÔÇô,
— Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw
me . . . Mama! Fourteen years have gone by! — I'm dead!
— You're a grandmother, Mama — . . . I married George
Gibbs, Mama! — Wally's dead, too. — Mama! His appendix
burst on a camping trip to Crawford Notch. We felt just terrible
about it, don't you remember? — . . . But, just for a moment
now we're all together — Mama, just for a moment let's all be
happy — . . . Let'sÔÇô!
And the publishers failed when so many books
went blank in mid-fulfillment,
and no-one but fairies passed their bar exams.
At last only Clifton Webb kept making love
to the hole where Garbo used to be,
and a touchdown pass in the closing game
never reached its tight end on the screen,
and all hell really broke loose in the land.
And the Good Fairy saw that it was bad,
or at least not so hot,
and that a sense of justice can go a long way.
So she kicked the transmitter
and the straights woke up restored.
And the earthfairies didn't mind so much,
since they had more time to draw
— and interpreting isn't the best of jobs,
no matter how you get paid.
all the art ever made by fairies
became invisible to straights,
starting with the Sistine Chapel.
It was mid-July, and thousands of riled-up visitors
demanded an apocalypse or their money back,
although it was noticed certain persons
continued to point and giggle at the ceiling
— for the fairies could still see perfectly well.
Then the Last Supper went.
And some noted art historians tried to get back their vision
by clumsily attempting a gross indecency or two,
and traffic in forged fairy papers became a nightmare.
But nothing worked
— including the ethically dubious practice
of tempting real fairies to simulate
the shapes of the Elgin marbles.
And then to indelible effect
a Tchaikovsky symphony disappeared
in the middle of Avery Fisher Hall,
but for a piping fairy here and there
who could still read the music on the page
and one panicky but determined violin.
And the bins of Sam Goody bulged
with the unsold silent discs of Broadway hits,
and hum-along fairies ruled the Met,
and Take-a-fairy-to-Tanglewood clubs were formed,
in case any Brahms or Ravel was played,
and the first Easter passed without even one Messiah .
And then in the classroom of our days
the fairy voices died in mid-pronunciation. So:
— I taste a liquor never brewed
from tankardsÔÇô,
— The mass of men lead livesÔÇô
ÔÇô,
— A rose is a roseÔÇô,
— They told me to take a streetcarÔÇô,
— Out of the cradleÔÇô,
— Call meÔÇô,
— Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw
me . . . Mama! Fourteen years have gone by! — I'm dead!
— You're a grandmother, Mama — . . . I married George
Gibbs, Mama! — Wally's dead, too. — Mama! His appendix
burst on a camping trip to Crawford Notch. We felt just terrible
about it, don't you remember? — . . . But, just for a moment
now we're all together — Mama, just for a moment let's all be
happy — . . . Let'sÔÇô!
And the publishers failed when so many books
went blank in mid-fulfillment,
and no-one but fairies passed their bar exams.
At last only Clifton Webb kept making love
to the hole where Garbo used to be,
and a touchdown pass in the closing game
never reached its tight end on the screen,
and all hell really broke loose in the land.
And the Good Fairy saw that it was bad,
or at least not so hot,
and that a sense of justice can go a long way.
So she kicked the transmitter
and the straights woke up restored.
And the earthfairies didn't mind so much,
since they had more time to draw
— and interpreting isn't the best of jobs,
no matter how you get paid.