WELLNESS SPELL

(to Edward Lear)

Upon his head a top hat slanted,

comrade Hobs strides with limping gait:

Calamity precluding, fate,

his soul he’s in a dog enchanted,

Encheliophis-like, implanted

in sea-cucumber ass, ingrate.

Now rid of feelings, love or hate,

he can sing ho-la-lees undaunted.

So now he strolls the town, said Hobs,

leading his soul, smug, on a chain:

If he were set about by yobs

he would not suffer, that is plain,

for soullessness bypasses pain,

which, for well-being, does the job.