# Waste Paper

Horror author H. P. Lovecraft, who despised T. S. Eliot, called Eliot's poem The Wasteland "a practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and scraps in general" (S. T. Joshi, A dreamer and a visionary, p. 179) and wrote "Waste Paper: A Poem Of Profound Insignificance" as a parody.
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A Poem of Profound Insignificance

## I

Out of the reaches of illimitable night The blazing planet grew, and forc'd to life Unending cycles of progressive strife And strange mutations of undying light And boresome books, than hell's own self more trite And thoughts repeated and become a blight, And cheap rum-hounds with moonshine hootch made tight, And quite contrite to see the flight of fright so bright I used to ride my bicycle in the night With a dandy acetylene lantern that cost $3.00 In the evening, by the moonlight, you can hear those darkies singing Meet me tonight - in dreamland... BAH! I used to sit on the stairs of the house where I was born After we left it but before it was sold And play on a zobo with two other boys. We called ourselves the Blackstone Military Band Won't you come home, Bill Bailey, won't you come home? In the spring of the year, in the silver rain When petal by petal the blossoms fall And the mocking birds call And the whippoorwill sings, Marguerite. The first cinema show in our town opened in 1906 At the old Olympic, which was then call'd Park, And moving beams shot weirdly thro' the dark And spit tobacco seldom hit the mark. Have you read Dickens' American Notes? My great-great-grandfather was born in a white house Under green trees in the country And he used to believe in religion and the weather.

## II

"Shantih, shantih, shantih"..."Shanty House" Was the name of a novel by I forget whom Published serially in the "All-Story Weekly" Before it was a weekly. Advt. Disillusion is wonderful, I've been told, And I take quinine to stop a cold But it makes my ears... always... Always ringing in my ears... It is the ghost of the Jew I murdered that Christmas day Because he played "Three O'Clock in the Morning" in the flat above me... Three O'Clock in the morning, I've danc'd the whole night through Dancing on the graves in the graveyard Where life is buried; life and beauty Life and art and love and duty Ah, there, sweet cutie. Stung! Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole I never quote things straight except by accident. Sophistication! Sophistication! You are the idol of our nation Each fellow has Fallen for jazz And we'll give the past a merry razz Thro' the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber And fellow-guestship with the glutless worm. Next stop is 57th St. - 57th St. the next stop. Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring, And the governor-general of Canada is Lord Byng Whose ancestor was shot or hung, I forget which, the good die young. Here's to your ripe old age, Copyright, 1847, by Joseph Miner, Entered according to act of Congress.

## III

In the office of the librarian of Congress America was discovered in 1492 This way out. No, lady, you gotta change at Washington St. to the Everett train. Out in the rain on the elevated Crated, sated, all mismated. Twelve seats on this bench, How quaint. In a shady nook, beside a brook, two lovers stroll along. Express to Park Ave., Car Following. No, we had it cleaned with the sand blast. I know it ought to be torn down. Before the bar of a saloon there stood a reckless crew, When one said to another, "Jack, this message came for you." "It may be from a sweetheart, boys," said someone in the crowd, And here the words are missing... but Jack cried out aloud: "It's only a message from home, sweet home, From loved ones down on the farm Fond wife and mother, sister and brother..." Bootleggers all and you're another In the shade of the old apple tree 'Neath the old cherry tree sweet Marie The Conchologist's First Book By Edgar Allan Poe Stubbed his toe On a broken brick that didn't show Or a banana peel In the fifth reel By George Creel It is to laugh And quaff It makes you stout and hale And all my days I'll sing the praise Of Ivory Soap Have you a little T. S. Eliot in your house?

## IV

The stag at eve had drunk his fill The thirsty hart look'd up the hill And craned his neck just as a feeler To advertise the Double-Dealer. William Congreve was a gentleman O art what sins are committed in thy name For tawdry fame and fleeting flame And everything, ain't dat a shame? Mah Creole Belle, ah lubs yo' well; Aroun' mah heart you hab cast a spell But I can't learn to spell pseudocracy Because there ain't no such word. And I says to Lizzie, if Joe was my feller I'd teach him to go to dances with that Rat, bat, cat, hat, flat, plat, fat Fry the fat, fat the fry You'll be a drug-store by and by. Get the hook! Above the lines of brooding hills Rose spires that reeked of nameless ills, And ghastly shone upon the sight In ev'ry flash of lurid light To be continued. No smoking. Smoking on four rear seats. Fare win return to 5 cents after August 1st Except outside the Cleveland city limits. In the ghoul-haunted Woodland of Weir Strangers pause to shed a tear; Henry Fielding wrote "Tom Jones" And cursed be he that moves my bones. I saw the Leonard-Tendler fight Farewell, farewell, O go to hell. Nobody home In the shantih.