On a constant path descending
With gooseberry seasons ending
For mackerel sauce we searched.
Hooked many years by fish,
Beneath that bush our every wish
We stirred in gooseberry fools;
Rhubarb too, did crumble,
Time through fingers fumble,
Poured in to an oily pool.
When my peers awake,
They will see that dreadful lake
And fear their fruitless doom,
For I too once was as they are,
And though I watch from here afar
Unable now to stay the moon,
With a bulbous cultivar,
Poetry my scimitar,
I’ll cut my lonely gloom.