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