Roscoe Bevington: Tenth Tattersby
The Folly
Tattersby
Roscoe Bevington
I feel cheated. Yes, cheated, in a profound and unexpected way
You won’t like crediting Roscoe Bevington with profundity
Not least because, educated as you’ve been
You no doubt cherish philosophy as franchise
Don’t much take to it, a wrong’un like myself
Waxing Aristotelian on the theme of man’s demise
I missed the war. As, of course, did you…ergo, sirrah, you understand me
When I say those boys of Kitchener’s brigade
Had the easier time of it
How I’d have thrived as a flying ace
What reward for ramming Tattersby mid-air
What medal pinned upon my breast?
Or such as filled my casket
His precious Tiger Moth, you know
Ha, ha! That also his unimaginative pet name for Lucille
Handy little aviatrix, our Lady Gimple
Now, I am a rather blunt-looking chap
Not one of your equine aristocracy
Makes one cynical of one’s elders, a bit
This inconstant family visage
And what is my brother Anselm today? A plodder
Embalmed behind a company desk
You don’t know, do you…you can’t tell me, my young squire
If he sent his man Walker in the dear old Chickadee
to carry it up to Morpeth
I mean that neatly severed hand of mine
The papers were all so kind as to mention
Roscoe Bevington
Awful Rivalry: Eleventh Tattersby
(2017, Stephanie Foster)