!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>Chaplin by A. S. J. Tessimond/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>Chaplin/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 class=”author”>by A. S. J. Tessimond/h2> div id=”content”> p>The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.br /> The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry/p> p>Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka’s march; the slightbr /> Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night./p> p>The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;br /> But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain./p> p>Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:br /> Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun./p> p>Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than thesebr /> Lie ambushed; malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees./p> p>God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;br /> And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,/p> p>While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowersbr /> And our feet jerk to tunes not played for ours./p>/div> p>br /> br> /body> /html>

Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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