Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
Pagett, M.P.
P
He spoke of the heat of India as “The Asian Solar Myth”;
Came on a four months’ visit, to “study the East” in November,
And I got him to make an agreement vowing to stay till September.
Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.”
March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he.
“Coming,” said I to Pagett. “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P.
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and lumpy—hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis—ten days’ “liver”—due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe.
Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart.
He didn’t call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,”
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one ever stayed.
Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of “Eastern exile,” and mentioned his home with tears;
But I hadn’t seen my children for close upon seven years.
[I’ve mentioned Pagett was portly] Pagett went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business. Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head.
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,”
And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.