James Lobley, English
When His Gamekeeper Returned Home Empty-Handed After Yet Another Hunt, Lord Bentley Began To Question His Decision To Hire a Vegetarian, ca. 1873
Oil on canvas
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/// In his library we find The Squire
and the Gamekeeper,
come to inquire about getting his wages.
(He’s been unpaid for ages.)
More than turnips to eat, he’ll require.
/// Starving gamekeeper came to deliver
to his boss this small, half-eaten sliver
of the grub he must eat
in the absence of meat,
and he hints of the squire’s “tasty liver.”
/// The squire takes in the rifle and knife,
and he thinks, “Ought I fear for my life?”
Then, in lieu of reproach,
he says, “I’d let you poach,
but you first must ask Connie, my wife.”
/// Picky Clifford is one of those fellers
who won’t eat turnips stored in root cellars.
He prefers game supplied
by the man at his side—
his big red-blooded gamekeeper, Mellors.
/// Why’s Sir Clifford, Lord Chatterley, there
in his library, stuck in his chair?
In The War, at the Rhine,
he had injured his spine,
but his E.D.’s not Mellors’ affair.
/// Clifford’s wife in due time would discover,
as the gamekeeper straddled above her,
that each time he exhaled
her face visibly paled.
Lady Chatterley’s no turnip-lover.
/// With Sir Clifford’s nerve damage to blame,
she felt rapture each time Mellors came.
Her numb husband’s a weeper,
but her lover’s a keeper.
She loves eating and playing his game.
/// A gamekeeper embodies his name
by the keeping, not killing, of game.
Should some hunters approach
with intention to poach,
they will find that hurled turnips can maim.
—– or —–
/// When with feverish dreaming I burn up,
more malevolent memories churn up.
Like those times as a child
fed on foods I reviled.
On my plate a huge turnip would turn up.