Читать книгу 100 Selected Poems - E. E. Cummings - Страница 17

11

here is little Effie’s head

whose brains are made of gingerbread

when the judgment day comes

God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid

waiting for something to rise

as the other somethings did—

you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise

Where is Effie who was dead?

—to God in a tiny voice,

i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five

crumbs chuckled as if they were alive

and number two took up the song,

might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb, i am should

and this is my little sister could

with our big brother who is would

don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame

whispered unto God, my name

is must and with the others i’ve

been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say

God amid a monstrous din

watch your step and follow me

stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)

which the six subjunctive crumbs

twitch like mutilated thumbs:

picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown

puzzles, but I know the way—

(nervously Whose eyes approve

the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of

the innumerable capering damned)

–staring wildly up and down

the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread

lift the sheet back in this way.

here is little Effie’s head

whose brains are made of gingerbread