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Cod Piece


 What you will


Curio: Will you go sup, me lord?

Duke:  What's cooking?

Curio: My lord,

           A dish without a name - or rather, one

           Which young New Yorkers, gleaming in the pride

           Of sable leather prick't with steely stars

           And jeans new bleach't with codpiece prominent,

           Do hold most dear; but chiefly those, methinks,

           Incorporate in bands to rule the street,

           Who lads of alien colour spur to brawls,

           Dancers who from some seething tenement

           Do howl their mistress' name repeatedly

           To the west o' the island; and from Germania's pride,

           The ivied university of Hamburg,

           It takes its common workday cognisance

           And "Hamburger" is hight.

 Duke: O faugh! It stinks

            Of old man's joy-stick, which our tarnish'd maids

            And minions too of baser appetite

            Do suck o'Sundays. Give me some pot, man, prithee,

            And let's to billialrds.


Richard Buckle

Dance Poetry
A comprehensive anthology
Edited by Alkis Raftis
Copyright 2012