I.
With my tin timbrel and my gray hat,I’ll walk the marshes and chase the rat.
Soldiers in my brain, small girls in my hair.The field belongs to us, the blossom and the air.
As the cars pass by night and the ladies pass by day,I grab my sheaf of spirits and beg them all to stay.
II.
Mad Tom met a manwho took him up by the shoulderand said: “What is your name?”
“Jove of the Skies,” said Mad Tom.“Parson and Peach, Isaacand Orator. I am hewho wears his crowns.”
III.
Dung-devouring serpent at my feet,God and his angelslower their bangleslike stalks of wheat.
Crown of Tintagel on my brow.Thor and his faceswalk twentyeight pacesto see me now.
Could you love poor mad me?To eat the treeof the lower grove.You cannot love.
IV.
“Let me be just,” Mad Tom said,“and rule over my empireof cans and cigarette buttswith grace.” The micebowed, the ants flurriedand wept, and the skysang for him. Yes,let justice befor twig and flea,ankle and featherin deep heather.
A thousand tongues will praise meand none will beg my pardon,my inmates there all to declareI am a caring warden.
V.
Then shall I be calledTom O’Bedlam, the eternal inmatewhom none investigatebut all fascinate. Thenshall I make showsfor the fairies outside my cage,as I grope my breastand twit like a parakeet,and make my eyeslike sunny thunder on the pavement.
Photo by Melyna Valle on Unsplash