Floyd Jones is a Perfect Gentleman
With apologies to magnificent RC Weslowski
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Floyd Jones is a perfect gentleman
With a rapier wit as quick as our Lord’s forgiveness
Telling thrilling tales of his recent adventures
In the forecourt of the Queen’s Country House.
Floyd said, “One year
“We had this rapscallion come buttle
For us for the summer. He was the cantakerous nephew
Of our own head butler so of course
The little deviant was given the ‘punch and judy’ special
Delivering tea back and forth up and down
The longest staircase in the palace
The staircase was as narrow as an epee
And about as straight as a coiled spring which made it safe
For only one daring butler to walk it at any given time
You could spend your whole god-fearing day
With your butter left in the churner and no one
Would know any better
So one afternoon just after luncheon, young master figures
He’s worked hard enough and decides he’s going to take
a sneaky forty winks. Well for a student who went to Harvard,
cheeky monkey sure wasn’t the sharpest bayonet in the barracks
He sat his ample fanny right there in the middle
Of Her Majesty’s afternoon stroll
Well mark my words, when her royal highness the queen
Came spritely down those stairs like some divine spirit of all that is holy
Sir Codpiece panicked, put down the tea tray, stood to attention
And then left it on the top stairs just before her majesty’s foot
Slipped on it like it was a newly frozen pond
It sounded like the Princess smacking her croquet mallet into the main hall’s chandelier
We had five long days of punishing downtime
Cleaning up that miscreant’s mess”
When Floyd was done he sat back in his carriage chair
Like a Pope on his throne smiling like Magdalene smiles
When she knows she gets to hold hands with Jesus in the morning
There is something glorious about polite language. It’s a
Form of chanting that’s as educated and religious as syllables
Agreeing with phrases, calling our ancestors up and demanding
They stand up straight and proper and converse with us.
A public display of education colouring the air
Like honeybees swift ‘round a flower.
Perfumed in their beauty all the while making
A Cambridge English professor proud
So much language is used as disguise as a
Veil to keep the world stupid
Sir Floyd’s embellishments and bon-mots were relevant
He drew us into a new race of words
Creating a dictionary as divine as any cathedral
Filled with the magic and complexity
Of the spectacle that we try to rise above and compared
To the profanities of reality television and
The blasphemy of verbing nouns
To me Sir Floyd was a thesaurus caught up in diction
Methodically regaling us with his tales
Maybe it’s time we all had a little spot of tea
With our pinkies fully extended
So we might recognize ourselves
As the pacifist, intelligent descendents
Of Europeans that we are
tags
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Floyd Jones is a perfect gentleman
With a rapier wit as quick as our Lord’s forgiveness
Telling thrilling tales of his recent adventures
In the forecourt of the Queen’s Country House.
Floyd said, “One year
“We had this rapscallion come buttle
For us for the summer. He was the cantakerous nephew
Of our own head butler so of course
The little deviant was given the ‘punch and judy’ special
Delivering tea back and forth up and down
The longest staircase in the palace
The staircase was as narrow as an epee
And about as straight as a coiled spring which made it safe
For only one daring butler to walk it at any given time
You could spend your whole god-fearing day
With your butter left in the churner and no one
Would know any better
So one afternoon just after luncheon, young master figures
He’s worked hard enough and decides he’s going to take
a sneaky forty winks. Well for a student who went to Harvard,
cheeky monkey sure wasn’t the sharpest bayonet in the barracks
He sat his ample fanny right there in the middle
Of Her Majesty’s afternoon stroll
Well mark my words, when her royal highness the queen
Came spritely down those stairs like some divine spirit of all that is holy
Sir Codpiece panicked, put down the tea tray, stood to attention
And then left it on the top stairs just before her majesty’s foot
Slipped on it like it was a newly frozen pond
It sounded like the Princess smacking her croquet mallet into the main hall’s chandelier
We had five long days of punishing downtime
Cleaning up that miscreant’s mess”
When Floyd was done he sat back in his carriage chair
Like a Pope on his throne smiling like Magdalene smiles
When she knows she gets to hold hands with Jesus in the morning
There is something glorious about polite language. It’s a
Form of chanting that’s as educated and religious as syllables
Agreeing with phrases, calling our ancestors up and demanding
They stand up straight and proper and converse with us.
A public display of education colouring the air
Like honeybees swift ‘round a flower.
Perfumed in their beauty all the while making
A Cambridge English professor proud
So much language is used as disguise as a
Veil to keep the world stupid
Sir Floyd’s embellishments and bon-mots were relevant
He drew us into a new race of words
Creating a dictionary as divine as any cathedral
Filled with the magic and complexity
Of the spectacle that we try to rise above and compared
To the profanities of reality television and
The blasphemy of verbing nouns
To me Sir Floyd was a thesaurus caught up in diction
Methodically regaling us with his tales
Maybe it’s time we all had a little spot of tea
With our pinkies fully extended
So we might recognize ourselves
As the pacifist, intelligent descendents
Of Europeans that we are
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