The Man with the Blue Guitar XXV

He held the world upon his nose

And this-a-way he gave a fling.

His robes and symbols, ai-yi-yi—

And that-a-way he twirled the thing.

Sombre as fir-trees, liquid cats

Moved in the grass without a sound.

They did not know the grass went round.

The cats had cats and the grass turned gray

And the world had worlds, ai, this-a-way:

The grass turned green and the grass turned gray.

And the nose is eternal, that-a-way.

Things as they were, things as they are.

Things as they will be by and by . . .

A fat thumb beats out ai-yi-yi.