Happy birthday, T. S. Eliot

From today's Writer's Almanac birthday tribute to T. S. Eliot:

He started telling practical jokes [after remarrying at age 70] and became fond of whoopee cushions and exploding cigars. He wrote a fan letter to Groucho Marx, who wrote back, and the two became close pen pals.

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Poprocks" (excerpts)

Let us laugh then, you and I,
When the evening is waiting, sly against the sky,
Like cellophane stretched across a toilet bowl.
Let us go, with smiles for all we meet,
Bunny ears on our feet . . .

* * *

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Larry, Curly, Moe.

* * *

The yellow cigar smoke that curls about your moustasche,
The yellow haze that obscures your face and hides my face
Preparing to meet your face after the cigar explodes in your face.

* * *

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
To knock, leave fake vomit and run down the stair
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "Act your age--not your shoe size!!"]

* * *

It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if I have a joybuzzer hidden in my palm, reaching for one's hand:
Would it have been worth while
If one, standing after having sat on the whoopee cushion
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not funny at all,
That's not my idea of humor, at all."



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