(with apologies to Lord Chancellors, past and present)
by Miss G. Velman
When you're lying in bed, and you've filled up your head with the music and words of the "Two-some", And you're struck by the thought that you're now truly caught in the G. and S. web - oh how gruesome And each comic part, that you've learned off by heart, at night you will start to regret them, For even in dreams, you're unable it seems, in slumber confused to forget them. Through eyes that are closed, you see characters posed, who against all your will have intruded, And try as you might, it's a one-sided fight, for they know that they can't be excluded. Duet, trio, or foursome, in routines quite awesome, round your pillow they're humming and dancing, In singles and doubles, parading their troubles, about your bedroom they are prancing. Though your ideas are fixed, in your dreams they are mixed, and the Tars are all Japanese Tailors, While each fairy you see, is now an M.P., and the Peers, they are all dressed as Sailors. The Sorcerer's shaking a bottle and making a cocktail which he has just thought up, And Bunthorne is scribbling while Archibald's quibbling about some gondolas that he's bought up. Well, with all good intents, you still try to make sense, but it's no use attempting to do so, For you meet Pirate Kings, tripping round Fairy Rings, and love-philtre trees that just grew so. And Bad Baronets, all devoid of regrets, are arguing with Tower Warders, While Policemen are queuing, and Lawyers are suing, and Bridesmaids are issuing orders. Now a Counsel appears, and you're full of dread fears, for you think that he's out to waylay you, But he passes you by, with a wink of his eye, and for damages offers to pay you. Fellow members who'd know why I'm suffering so, now with warning I tell you the reason, I'm a terrible mess, for I love G. and S., and I go every night of the season. My affliction is bad, I am D'Oyly Carte mad, and I plague all my friends and relations, With Gilbertian quips while on outings or trips, and monopolise all conversations, With a chorus or song, or soliloquy long, or a madrigal, ballad, or patter, I hum and I quote, and I whistle each note, then I flood them with "Savoyard" chatter. And loudly each day, all my records I play, so I'm driving my neighbours quite crazy, Then when I am in bed, flying round in my head, are all Sullivan's tunes, growing hazy. Dear Gilbert, to you, and to Sullivan too, I'm appealing: Oh please won't you heed me, For I've been in this state since the First Night that fate to the Sadler's Wells Theatre did lead me. Now there's no hope, I fear, I'll grow worse every year, and become a fanatic devoted, Till exhausted and crazed, and so utterly dazed, as a lifelong attender I'm noted. But the Season flies past, and it's over too fast, for the Last Night is here, and you're fighting a tear, and you're clapping like mad, though you're terribly sad, and you're dreaming up ways to turn back all the days to the start of the tour: and you're cheering for more, and your favourite's on, then you see he has gone, and curtain's descending, the magic is ending --- The theatre in darkness you're leaving, But the spell that they cast, tends forever to last, and still nightly it seems, that they people your dreams, With a web of enchantment for weaving.
