This is a parody poem on Blake's "Piping Down The Valleys Wild". It is self-explanatory, and no précis is needed.

Roistering through the city streets,
Whistling merrily along --
Tapping feet in measured beats
Accompanying my cheery song...

I saw a gaunt and homeless child
Begging in the streets for bread --
On each side, heedless strangers filed
With conscience slumbering, or fled.

"Please, sir, grant me a trifling boon,"
The starving gamin cried --
I said, "Go hear your mother croon;"
He said, "Oh no! She died."

I delved deep in my pocket,
Pulled out a knife and comb,
Some money and a silver locket...
Mementos of my own lost home.

I pried the faded picture from it,
Gave coins and locket to the boy --
My song resumed, I tried to hum it
As his pinched face lit up with joy.

Then, dancing gladly on my way,
I left him to the whims of fate --
I can't right all Earth's wrongs today.
Perhaps tomorrow. Sure, they'll wait.


* Re "Piping Down the Valleys Wild,"
with apologies to William Blake


Previously published in the NeoVictorian/ Cochlea, 2004