“My British Voices”: July 27th 1876,

My British voices speak to me
In such charming ways.
They say “Tally-ho-da-loo”
And “Tipper on the top side, what?”
They can make me happy as prancing in flowr’d fields
Even when I am strapped down and raving.

But whence the darkness in what my British voices say?
How fortarooth should I take such?
“Halloo and milk the cow in yon meadow,” indeed,
And what of “There’s a good chap. Smack your doctor!”
I’ve no wish to harm my physician
And no knowledge of cow milking, whatever.

My British voices speak nonsense with such enthusiasm and affability,
That I wish to understand them, so I can act,
But how do I “head for the dells when the widow’s in her weeds”?
Or respond to “Harridans to ewes, but my lady has seen brighter suns”?
But they say it’s time for tea, and to shush.

“When Will I Find the Great Answer?”

The questions come, as they must.
Nature, dawning with light and poesy
Demands this of Ask Boz,
And stem to leaf, bough to branch,
Pistil to stamen, the answer must come from me.

Ah, is this the scope of my fate?
Ask: Answer; Question: Response?
Ask is to Questions as Boz is to answer?
Pregunta a contestar, bailarín a la danza?
Can it be that I will always have to answer
Pathetic mortal questions about finite fate?
Only this? Is this my doom?
Or will the great question someday come?
For that day, I will combine paper and ink,
Thought and intent, desire and execution,
And just the right mixture of coca-opium,
And I will give the answer
That creates the key
To unlock all the secrets
And leads to my total domination of the universe.
This I will do to oppress the people for themselves.