Welwyn Garden City
The family before me has left a mess,
and so has Dimitry Fyodorovich--
shortbread crumbs ground into carpet;
blood stiffening his handkerchief.
The service is prompt and attentive
when you flash a hundred-rouble note,
or signal yourself as among the gentry
with a blazer and a public-school smirk.
The revolution has not yet come.
The existence of God remains debatable.
Young Fabians pamper their underdogs.
Teacups clink in fair-priced saucers.
A holy fool, a duel with pistols,
and Gemmas, Gemmas everywhere.
In the fitting rooms, the requirement
to give a strong but considered opinion.
Yes, yes, I am all finished here.
Yes, yes, it was all quite nice.
It is only that I am dying, dear brother--
can't you tell by my untouched Assam?