27 MAY 1966, Page 21

Sober as a Judge

The court sits; you hold it. But you'll never make a judge, My only son, drunk in charge. What is your capacity?

My clown and your own, You reel about all day, Laughing or crying Without any subtlety.

How slight the distinction; You change masks abruptly.

Sleep fells you at seven; The lines settle then. I rise And read the inheritance From which I can't protect you.

Come on then, my drunkard, My small son. The court waits To judge you. I dare you : Walk here without a fall.

KEVIN CROSSLEY-HOLLAND