Let’s talk about the weather then,
Would that help you take your ease?
Gossip is so rare from you
The noise of falling leaves is louder than
Your breathing; if breathing is whatever is
– Weather? Not at any cost,
As old as I might seem I’m not yet dead,
I haven’t lost my eye for majesty,
Let’s talk instead of rising youth and lovely girls
And pearls of timeless wisdom,
These are winsome things to ruminate.
I believe you’ve met the Murphy girl?
Prithee? Perhaps I have, describe her case.
A pleasure, she’s a rarity; an angel
And so sweet, lithe and pretty to a fault, she is
The neatest eighth-generation, Irish Sydney-sider
You’d ever meet. The Murphy girl, Angela,
A canted Kerry drawl and not a flattened Sydney twang,
She burrs her vowells with magnanimity and
Sets a rising lilt to end each other phrase,
Prefaced with a smile which bubbles with
Her champagne grin and hearty laugh; it’s venal sin
There is no praise enough for her.
And aptly named: Angela, you say?
Aye, and by the bye, she’s blonde and not
A vacant lot, I meant of that the nicest way;
In truth she is a saucy bit, smart, polite
In her affection, so earnest and endearing,
So free of imperfection. Where she clothes
Her common sense it bodes a sharp
Intelligence, a gentleness to deference,
A fortress in her own defence.
Ah, that Murphy girl? An actor, yes?
The thespic clown, you surely meant
Ms Murphy Brown…?