Out of curiosity

Mister George Harnett,

I have a query,

With reference to your soul.

We've not really talked ever

(By my intendment

I slide choppily from your way).


This morning a sober clarion rang,

And I woke to the skein of your unfathomed mind.

Let's get to the washing up, Mister George Harnett.


The ur-Harnett, for the present author

Is smiling. His foot rests upon conquered contentment.

Some kind of noble truth he has passed,

He sold laughter for that hard-wearing smile.


Does it only amuse you, George Harnett esquire,

This oddly ruled turfworld, is it to be pinned,

Wreathed and contained by a lordly smirk,

And a bundle of creased, or perhaps folded blue?


I do not know you, good Harnett,

But do explain

If your mirth is germane

To time's drawn, aching slash,

To Russia, the mother of Lermontov,

Hardening in a grey turgid pipe,

To war beyond weapons?


If amusement can cover

The Cabinet's writhing

The BBC owes you one, Mr. Harnett.


Which sage cast you thus,

A formed man of power,

With banalised faults and no chance for surprise,

So gallant in peace and so hardy in war?

Was it OUCA and the Royal Air Force, or were

You born lumpen?