IN the castle of Glubbdubdrib
How spendidly we dine
On flesh from magic potagers
And cups of dead men's wine,
Dead men who run with bottles,
Lackeys of silent air,
A ghost in gilded livery
Fawning behind each chair.
Beckon, and flunkey Caesars
Bring us their phantom bread.
Once they were gods and emperors;
Now, of course, they are dead.
The governor of Glubbdubdrib
(Two ghosts cringe on each side)
Bows to congratulations,
Filled with a careless pride.
“Really, the servant problem . . . .
You mean that Roman youth?
Catullus. Oh, yes, brisk enough,
But—you know—so uncouth.
“There's Plato in the passage,
They tell me he's quite droll.
He says some devilish clever things;
A heathen, though, poor soul . . . .”
The governor of Glubbdubdrib
Resumes his drinking-cup.
As for the guests and visitors,
They hadn't even looked up.