The Love Song of B. Robert Wayne

For all you comic fans, here’s an adaptation of T.S. Eliots “Prufrock” that I messed around with a while ago.  I might as well let someone read it.

Let us go then, you and I, 

With our capes spread out in the sky 

Like killer angels watching over the night; 

Let us go, through certain crime-ridden streets, 

The slithering retreats        

Of restless fiends come out to steal my mother’s pearls, 

To shoot my father, to make my inwards curl: 

Streets that fester like food gone bad

If someone had 

Only gotten to them in time, they might not be spoilt.

Oh, do not ask, “Is my ‘R’ on straight?” 

When so many are out, ill tempered and irate. 

 

In the room the people came and went 

Talking about that man, Clark
Kent. 

 

The yellow symbol that peers out from the black,

The darkness that encircles my victim’s back , 

The black death, the disease, the incarnation that I embrace, 

Makes my foes to tremble beholding my face.

Let fall upon them the hammer, 

Of my justice or death, either one will not matter.

As either is too good for their rotten existence, 

They must leave, go elsewhere, be gotten hence. 

 

And indeed there will be time 

To stop the hatting, and thwart the ravishment of his wonderland, 

To break his id-consciousness imposement.

There will be time, there will be time 

To prepare a padded laughing cell for two card-faced murderers; 

There will be time to send one careening into the unquenchable cistern, 

And time for an enigma to speak his last.

To punch through the skin-master, the deformed and reformable

Time for the spotlight and flying beacon on a cloud, 

And time yet for a hundred inquisitions, 

And for a hundred acquisitions and incisions, 

Before the waking ride of Phoebus Apollo. 

 

In the room others came and sought   

Whether it might be Alan Scott. 

 

And indeed there will be time 

To deal with Alfred’s reticence, asking, “Do I dare?” 

Whether he would put forth foot to descend the stair, 

Into my dark and benighted lair

To fetch me from my dominion for a brief respite and luncheon 

My frilled robe, my soft and comfortable shoes, 

My morning tea, light and sweet, the tribune and all comforts of a gentleman— 

[They will say: “When will he marry? That old playboy”] 

Do I dare        

Bring someone into my universe? 

Can I let someone in? 

When there is nothing left, just a shell, all but my curse? 

 

For I have known them all already, known them all:— 

Have known their evenings, mornings, afternoons,        

They have sat at my table and supped their spoons; 

All I hear are voices dying, dying, in an alley 

Amidst the lovely ambience, the sociality, the laughter without me. 

  So what shall I have left? 

 

I have known eyes a little, known hers in places straight—         

The eyes that stare back from behind a gate, 

And when I am engulfed, she springs with her claws, 

The kitten has me pinned and entranced, 

The feline hypnosis 

But can a rodent live happily with a cat?        

  And how should I presume? 

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