A Song for J. Alfred
(With apologies to T.S. Eliot)
Let us go then, you and I
To visit Prufrock—what a guy!
Oh, do not ask, "Who is he?"
As if you have somewhere to be
J. Al Prufrock—he's the man!
He throws teas like no one can
Not those formal, dry affairs
Here, the women dance on chairs
Jazzy songs performed with pleasure
Singers trading off each measure
Prufrock in his velvet robe
Teas from all around the globe
Black teas, green teas, milky chai
Hot teas, cold teas, sweet iced Thai
Sometimes there is coffee too
Often an Italian brew
In the room men arrive and depart
Talking of Napoleon Bonaparte.
At tea-time Prufrock comes alive
It lasts sometimes from two 'til five.
"Le thÈ—c'est moi!" he's known to cheer.
He holds his teabags very dear
And, oh, the cakes and scones and toast
The jams imported from the coast
J. Alfred hosts the grandest fete
My friend, you ain't seen nothin' yet!
For tea defines his very life,
It is his mistress and his wife
He's sensitive about his hair
He's going bald, so please donít stare
He suffers from a vanity
That drives him to insanity
Be mindful that your gaze is straight
Avoiding contact with his pate
Although caffeine may be the cause
It could just be genetic flaws
In the room boys come and go
Sipping cups of orange pekoe
J. Al Prufrock has a vision
But suffers from his indecision
Paralyzed by all the choices
Dare he listen to the voices?
Chamomile would taste just fine
But iced Earl Gray is so divine
Brown sugar, white sugar, one lump or two
Milk or just honey—what should he do?
But it grows cold...It grows cold...
Heat up some water in his kettle of gold.
He has some random aberrations—
Occasional hallucinations—
Mostly he sees arms and eyes
I for one can sympathize
Having once ingested tea
Of not the highest quality
The source declared it was home-grown
But it was grass—I should have known...
Prufrock rolls the bottom of his pants
And compares himself to Rosencrantz
But Hamlet's life he's quick to spurn
Heíd rather be a Guildenstern.
Sometimes he asks questions
Do I care? And Do I care
If caffeine causes me to lose all my hair?
In the room women join the throng
Discussing merits of oolong
Once he squeezed cheeses into a ball
And it would have been worth it, after all
The right blend of gruyere was so exquisite
If only the duchess had postponed her visit
She refused to leave precious Fifi behind
So sure was she that Prufrock wouldn't mind
But precariously perched up on the platter
Was temptation that made Fifi fatter
In the room girls look like venison
Reading poems by Alfred Tennyson
Beware his wine—it is undrinkable
But insulting our host would be unthinkable
I've tried to explain in a delicate way
That good wine needs aging more than a day
He argues: it's his wine and so it's his call
But that is not how to ferment at all.
That is not how to ferment at all.
But Prufrock's tea is always great
Undeniably first-rate
And so for all eternity
Prufrock is the king of tea!
