Hurrying to catch my Comet
One dark November day,
Which soon would snatch me from it
To the sunshine of Bombay,
I pondered pages of Berkeley
Not three weeks since had heard,
Perceiving Chatto darkly
Through the mirror of the Third.

Crowds, colourless and careworn,
Had made my taxi late,
Yet not till I was airborne
Did I recall the date-
That day when Queen and Minister
And Band of Guards and all
Still act their solemn-sinister
Wreath-rubbish in Whitehall.

It used to make me throw up,
These mawkish nursery games:
O when will England grow up?
-But will I outsoar the Thames,
And dwindle off down Auster
To greet Professor Lal
(He once met Morgan Forster),
My contact and my pal.