Topical Talk

I dote on variety; that I must say;
But I find it is scarce in the talk
    of the day.
I love little chats on, let's say, re-
    lativity,
Yearn to discuss politicians' pas-
    sivity
    When the debate—
    As the even grows late—
Turns upon Bills for the good of
    the state.
But all that I hear when I dine or
    I sup
Is "Kemal," or "Coal," or the
    "Caulfield Cup."

On the tram, in the train, I could
    fume, I could froth;
But I just clench my teeth and I
    swallow my wrath.
For I want to talk wisely of germs
    and geography,
Jazz or geraniums, love or litho-
    graphy.
But all of my friends
Scorn these various blends,
And on three hackneyed subjects
    their talk never ends;
While I sit and I sneer, as my
    dander gets up,
O'er this "Kemal," and "Coal," and
    the "Caulfield Cup."

I long to converse in a rational
    way
On something excepting the craze
    of the day.
I'd like to wax eloquent to some
    sweet lady, or
Prattling sweet nothings in arbours
    all shady, or
In cosy nooks
Talk o' pictures or books;
Or even commune with long,
    languishing looks.
But whenever we get there the
    lady pipes up
On "Kemal," or "Coal," or the
    Caulfield Cup."

"Kemal" and "Coal" and the "Caul-
    field Cup"—
They ring in my ears from the time
    I get up
Till I creep to my couch, wrung
    with irascibility,
Wondering why all this verbal
    futility.
Like to the roar
Of the waves on the shore,
Saying the same silly thing o'er
    and o'er;
Like to the yelp of a petulant pup—
"Kemal" and "Coal" and the "Caul-
    field Cup."