Love Song of CGB Spender, by zara hemla,

a filk of Mr. T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, one of my favorite poems in the whole world. I mean only respect. (Performed at OBSSE Fest Talent show, 2000.)



Let us go then, you and I,
When evening is spread out against the sky
like Cassandra Spender's belly on a table;
Let us spend our time in Army bases
searching for familiar faces,
hoping against hope to find a way to save
the world; looking for the family that we gave
in a worthy cause,
which leads you to the overwhelming question:
Oh, do not ask, "What mytharc?"
I sha'n't leave you in the dark.

In the room the Elders come and go,
talking of what the aliens know.

. . . . .

For I have known the greys already, known them all --
Have known their blackest children, bloody ones,
have measured out my life in gunshot wounds.
I know the voices telling me to take the fall
beneath the kind, complacent, old-man faces -
shall I lick their shoe-laces?

And I have known the sewed-up faces, known them all --
the flamming ones who look like anyone,
and looking thus, can choke doctors at will,
and kill field agents just for a little thrill --
so how should I give in?
Should I tell them all my secrets and my graces?
Shall I lick their shoe-laces?

Oh, I have seen their scars already, seen them all --
their stick-white arms with smallpox bruises bare
in the boxcar half-light or the steely chair?
Does bad respiration
cause hallucination?
I still can see them piled in dainty heaps.
Do you see who I can trust?
Do you know who I can tell?

Shall I say, "I have watched Presidents die,
and watched a million patsys take the fall
while I could kill you anytime at all?"

I should have been a paperback-writer,
with no idea how to use a gun.

. . . . .

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the greys, the colony, and me,
Among the wreckage, among the ones survivory,
Would it have been worthwhile
To have assuaged them with a smile,
To sharpen pencils to a tiny point
And just to stick them in the stuccoed ceiling?
To say, 'I have the secrets, I am not dead,
Come from Canada to tell you all, I shall tell you all' --
If one, cradling a small child in her arms,
Should say: 'I don't want your information at all.
I don't want it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all?
I do not have confidence that,
After the ice caves and the goo-pods and the spaceship sights,
After the flukemen, after the real thing, after the submarines and oil-well rights,
And X, and so much more,
That I can tell them exactly what I mean!
But as if a slide show had been projected backwards on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, clutching the spectacles of a child,
And turning from the window, should say:
'I don't want your information at all.
I don't want it, at all.'

. . . . .

No! I am not the leader, though I was meant to be;
They've tried to kill me once or twice,
Have tried to burn with fire and ice,
Yet I prevail; no doubt, you think it simple,
You think me so, yet I prevail again,
I am the last of the shadowy men;
the sword is mightier than the pen!
I shall train up a thousand -- ten
thousand, I shall rule.

. . . . .

I have seen a Kennedy stoop in pain;
I have lived nine lives and always come back
To bring home greys come from the black.

I have lingered even when my fate was sealed;
Beware; my hand is strong yet, my aim is true.
And I will cheat Death, and Mulder, and you.



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