Homage To Gaetano Donizetti

There was a sugar farmer's son (hyperthyroid)
I knew who was just like Nemorino,
And a girl in the Everest Milk Bar
Whose tits rubbed the cold of the ice-cream churn
As she reached down with her cheating scoop—
You saw more if you asked for strawberry—
She had a cold Christ hung over that defile
Crucified in silver, his apotheosis
In dry ice fumes. She was just like bel'Adina,
All the magic in the world wouldn't get
Your hand down her front unless she'd heard
Your rich uncle had just died.
Transistors behind her played Pat Boone,
But only to make a money music
In the till. Dear Master, what they say
About your big guitar is academic prejudice.
The truth is Dr Dulcamara's got
The Times Music Critic's job; the rustici
Are cooking on Sicilian gas, Venetian composers
Are setting Goethe to gongs and spiels and phones,
Teutons still come south to add a little
Cantilena to their klangschönheit
(Not to mention the boys of Naples), and those apostles,
The Twelve Notes, are at work on their Acts
To beautify our arrogance. Why should you care
That your audience are stuffed shirts if you know
That half at least have paid up for their seats.