Oh, Oh, Obstropoulos
indignatio versum



He moonwalks to the bar
and genuflects to slurp the bright
meniscus from his brimming glass;
this he transports, with his swollen gut,
before him to his accustomed table
hard by the window, where he may survey
to-ings and fro-ings in the street outside,
on which he comments in well-gravelled tones,
wounding all within earshot.

Ah, he knows where we are coming from,

Andrew (anglicised) Obstropoulos,
is conveniently deaf -- or elects to be so --
talking incessantly of cicadas, crickets
and similar enchanting fauna
which are to be readily come across
on his native island, Skopelos,
brooking, like them, no interruption.

His island's gain must be our loss.
We sigh for peaceful Skopelos --
imagine its raked sands, its offshore islets
where zephyr-tousled pines deliver
a modest shade for sportive lovers. Friend,
we long for, yearn for perfect peace --
that blessed space that is Obstropoulos-less.




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