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(An Artistic and Ephemeral Publication)

Shot a notion on the wing,
'Twas lively as a sparrow,
But soon it smelt like anything,
I took it unto Tarot;
I saw a lank-haired, tearful wight,
Who seemed borne down by sorrow:
"The maggots in it are not right,"
He said: "Pray, try tomorrow."

 

I caught a mournful churchyard ghost,
Who had nor bones nor marrow,
'Come here, thou varlet dim and lost,'
And him I lugged to Tarot.
The lank-haired wight smiled thro' his tears:
"That's more the sort of caper,"
He said--and with his curious shears
He cut a shroud of paper.

 

Emboldened--to the land of dreams,
And fearsome wild abysses,
I went, and brought home madmen's screams,
And sad, dead women's kisses;
That wight laughed for an hour on end
Over my well-filled barrow:
"Upon my word," said he, "my friend,"
"You're just the man for Tarot."

 

"And can you stand like this?" He showed
An attitude most plastic;
"And let the Universe be blowed,
And live in dreams fantastic?"
"I can, I do, I shall, I will,
Love it like sow her farrow,"
I cried. And now for good or ill
I'm on the staff of Tarot!