Too Long A Sacrifice

I have written at least twice before (here & in more detail: here) on the type of evening where everything starts off very tame and civilised and steadily (but stealthily however) descends into the kind of ill-behaviour that would cause you to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself... were it not all so damn hilarious. I think a new word is required for this feeling with which a large majority of us must surely be acquainted, and my humble suggestion is "hilarishame".

So I had one such evening on Sunday night (yes, a further mockery of my recent extolling of the virtues of abstinence), and while I could happily write a long account of it, one of the peculiar qualities of hilarishame is that no-one who was not present in the run up to it could possibly understand or appreciate why the first half of the word is there.

So let me write about something else. Let me write about an evening I went out with the full intention of getting utterly plastered, which is a horse of a different colour altogether (as the Wizard of Oz's doorman is wont to say). One of the defining aspects of the night were certain impromtu recitals from the amphitheatre of the civic offices in the early hours; and one of the 'pieces' was a joint effort at a 'bakery' re-working of the thrid verse of the W.B Yeats' poem 'Easter 1916.' The origins of this particular idea, incidentally, being best consigned to the realm of the unspoken at this juncture.

Suffice it say by way of pre-emptive explanation that far from what you are about to read representing a belittling of Ireland's national heroes, it (for my part anyway) should reflect (if it indeed reflects anything at all) three things:
1) a mixed opinion that I have about Yeats which is not all that dissimilar to his own mixed feelings about the objects of the poem in question,
2) my love of baked products and baked-product accompaniments.
3) that it is as true now as it ever was that too long a sacrifice can make a scone of the heart.

So for what it is worth, this is one possible draft of a joint-effort act of literary sacrilege:

Easter 1916 by W.B. Yeast

Too long a baking
Can make a scone of the tart
Oh when may it be iced?
That is the baker's part, our part
To simmer upon a low flame
As a mother spoils her child
When she at last has buns
Or bread that is bun-styled.
What is it but a profiterole?
No, no, not dessert but bread
Was it un-kneaded bread afterall?
For England may eat cake
For all that is done (in the oven) and said
We know their cream; enough
To know they had cream on brown bread
And what if an excess of dough
Bewildered them till they fried?
I'll serve it hot as dessert
Johnson, Mooney and O'Brien,
Jacob and Kipling,
Now, and when time to eat,
Wherever cream is poured,
Are churned: churned utterly
A spreadable butter is born


...And for those of you who might be unaware of the original (which I can and will recite off by heart as it happens because I really do think it is an excellent poem), here it is for comparison:


.......................................Easter 1916 by W.B. Yeats

.......................................Too long a sacrifice
.......................................Can make a stone of the heart.
.......................................O when may it suffice?
.......................................That is Heaven's part, our part
.......................................To murmur name upon name,
.......................................As a mother names her child
.......................................When sleep at last has come
.......................................On limbs that had run wild.
.......................................What is it but nightfall?
.......................................No, no, not night but death;
.......................................Was it needless death after all?
.......................................For England may keep faith
.......................................For all that is done and said.
.......................................We know their dream; enough
.......................................To know they dreamed and are dead;
.......................................And what if excess of love
.......................................Bewildered them till they died?
.......................................I write it out in a verse --
.......................................MacDonagh and MacBride
.......................................And Connolly and pearse
.......................................Now and in time to be,
.......................................Wherever green is worn,
.......................................Are changed, changed utterly:
.......................................A terrible beauty is born.