More sentimental verse from the Admirable Carroll, who knew full well how to tug at the heartstrings of his Victorian audience with the most maudlin blather any anapestic poet has ever mustered up.
However, we Protosurrealists are made of sterner stuff! Yes, we are dabbing at a tear or two at the corner of our eye … yet it is not the sudden outbreak of flowers and chocolates twixt Beaver & Butcher that moves us so. It’s the eye-strain brought on by the wearisome days we’ve spent inking all those floorboards and velour curtains.
The ship in the background, required by the poet’s careless mention of a billowy ocean in the verse, was a further source of discomfort … we’ve half a mind to insist upon the creation of a Royal Society for the Protection of Artists to curb this rash of excessive authorial description which blights our once fair land. Huzzah for minimalism, we say!
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