Nýtt og betra líf

Ég hef ekki bloggað neitt að ráði að undanförnu; ekki vegna þess að tilefnin gefist ekki, það gera þau í hrönnum; heldur vegna þess að ég hef haft mun mikilvægari hnöppum að hneppa. Ég var sumsé svo stálheppinn að eignast dóttur í liðnum mánuði. Henni og móður heilsast vel (þó mig gruni að þær séu að fá flensu) og stóru systurnar tvær eru í skýjunum yfir þessu mesta krútti allra krútta. Ég líka og veit því ekki hversu iðinn ég verð í bloggheimum á næstunni. Það er meira en nóg að gera á heimilinu og á Viðskiptablaðinu sitjum við ekki auðum höndum heldur.

En af þessu góða tilefni vildi ég deila með lesendum skemmtikvæði eftir bandaríska skáldið Ogden Nash (1902-1971), en hann var sumpart svar Bandaríkjamanna við Þórarni Eldjárn. Nema Þórarinn er náttúrlega mun fjölhæfara skáld en Nash var.

 

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

 

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

Contrariwise, my blood runs cold

When little boys go by.

For little boys as little boys,

No special hate I carry,

But now and then they grow to men,

And when they do, they marry.

No matter how they tarry,

Eventually they marry.

And, swine among the pearls,

They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,

With parents who feed and clothe him.

Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,

But I have begun to loathe him.

Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless

This child who to me is nameless.

This bachelor child in his carriage

Gives never a thought to marriage,

But a person can hardly say knife

Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),

A-sleeping in the sun,

Without I turn a trifle pale

And think is he the one?

Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,

And then he'll want a pony,

And then he'll think of pretty girls,

And holy matrimony.

A cat without a mouse

Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,

And quietly sucks his thumbs.

His cheeks are roses painted on silk,

And his teeth are tucked in his gums.

But alas the teeth will begin to grow,

And the bubbles will cease to bubble;

Given a score of years or so,

The roses will turn to stubble.

He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,

And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,

And raging and ravenous for the kill,

He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.

This infant whose middle

Is diapered still

Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!

My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.

A fig for embryo Lohengrins!

I'll open all his safety pins,

I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,

And give him readings from Aristotle.

Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,

And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.

Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water

To marry somebody else's daughter.