Madam, I must object to
what you are
teaching your son. I don’t
agree with all
this butterfly
collecting. Since you brought
it up. You see, I think
it really is
so frightfully unhealthy.
He shouldn’t think
nearly so much about such
things at his
delicate age. Pursuing
painted wings,
squeezing his grubby
hands round tender throats
just when they suck the
nectar. Then he screws
them lifeless in a de
luxe oubliette,
his killing jar. What is
it leading on to?
His most delicious moment’s
when he pricks
them through their
centres with his shining pin,
or glues them in their
coffins with one-way
mirrors for lids so he
can see them sleep.
He broods too much upon
it, far too much,
piercing frail specimens.
Or do I brood?
For let me tell you what
my daughter and
I have been getting up
to. We read poems
like:
When the Earth was sick
and the Skies were grey,
And the woods were rotted
with rain,
The Dead Man rode through
the autumn day
To visit his love again.
His love she neither saw
nor heard,
So heavy was her shame;
And though the babe
within her stirred
She knew not that he
came.
And my daughter and I
thought it very sad.
She’s nine so she knows
everything about
unwanted pregnancies. And
she has been
in love with a young
schoolmaster. She knows
that girls feel funny
when a strange man looks
at them. She dreams of
growing breasts. She knows
when Mummy’s periods
come. Now she’d begun
to make herself up in
private. You,
Madam, I know, think it
is very bad
and most unhealthy. You
have read the books.
She broods too much upon
it all.
Or is
it you who brood? You’re
probably afraid
she will corrupt your
son. Rearing children,
life styles, are a
gamble. You pays your pence.
Are we not both afraid
one day we’ll see
a sporty girl go-going
behind glass?
A man who’s frowning as
he jabs and kills?
