Whale by Christopher Isherwood

He’s trying desperately, this whale,

To put his head beneath his tail.

He’s frightened because someone’s told

Him that his stomach’s turning to gold –

And as you know, with whales and weasels,

When one turns gold, he’s got the measles.

As a matter of fact, our friend has not.

He’s only slipped on a treacle-pot

Dropped from the deck of a submarine

By the cabin-boy, who was feeling green.


by Christopher Isherwood


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Poetry, theatre, literature, films, reviews and various other matters. Primarily Russian and Welsh subjects.

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