Errors of Observation

The idea is exciting, surely, But are your intentions really very pure? We've watched you with your little opera glasses Lying for hours in the stalky grass, And, to be honest, we are not quite sure.

You say you watch the life beyond the river; Can you tell us precisely how it differs From ours? For instance, do lives pass More quickly? Do people jump off cliffs?

We are not official inquisitors, Are merely curious, thus our visit; We see you noting in your note-book Squiggly, exciting, little notes And consider it might be important, is it?

Those people, do they despair? Do they go on Carrying hum-drum burdens over tight-ropes of pain, Wearing deceptions like outer coats?

Or do they let go, neglect the wife, suffer migraine?

Whatever you're at you do it slowly.

Surely it would be so much simpler to go In disguise, a convincing set of whiskers, To observe the detail of the place?

We would terribly lilve to know The ultimate purpose of the observations you make, And if it would matter should you make a mistake.

It is rumoured those people are a sub-human rack:.

That their habits are dirty and their religion a fake. What is the significance of their statues, Jut jawed and eyeless, noses extremely flat, That face us from the shade of that clump of beeches?

How deeply do your investigations reach?

In any case you certainly won't get fat On the pay you must get for this hole-and-corner spying; Why not give it up? For us, it is rather annoying To see an intelligent man sprawled in a ditch.

Why not look at us, we're much more interesting?

We must admit to being a little worried.

We noticed this morning that our eyes were sore And red as if we had been weeping: And we were forgetful as if from lack of sleep.

Perhaps you can help us more, so very much more Than the quacks in the town, if we say that we groom A horrid nightmare of blackness and doom; And to see children play is a bore, Rings a bell in an empty room.

Oh we wish to know so badly If we ordinary people are quite mad; Far nicer to have a cosy neurosis, And you look like a man who knows, A man who can tell a fixation from a fad.

Those people across the river, can you say If, like us, they dream they've had their day?

Is the chart you are making too awfully sad, A graph, we suppose, of a civilisation's decay?

You smile, but we can read the symptoms; The other day we heard their belfries ring, Whether for wedding or a funeral tolling, Or one of their chiefs in that wise they extolled, Doesn't much matter, for that sort of thing Is decadent now; that's obvious, don't you know?

Tell us you do, please say that you think so.

Oh, write the words in to the tune we sing, Give the right answers, tell us what we want to know.

GORDON WHARTON