Old Fastitocalon is fat:
His grease the most stupendous vat,
If He perchance were boiled,
Or tank or reservoir would fill,
Or make of margarine a hill,
Or keep the wheels well oiled
On all the carts beneath the sun,
Or brew emulsion in a tun
For those whose chests are weak!
He wallows on a bed of slime
In the Ocean’s deep and weedy clime;
As merry organs roll,
So snores He solemn sweet and loud,
And thither tumble in a crowd
The sardine, and the sole
And all the little foolish fry
Who pry about with goggle eye,
The skipper and the sprat
Approach the portals of His jaws;
What feast or frolic be the cause
They enter in to see.
Alas: they come not ever thence;
The joke is all at their expense,
As is the dinner too.
Yet are there times of storm and strife,
When equinoctial gales are rife,
And there is much ado
He finds the depths devoid of rest,
Then up He comes and on His chest
Floats in the upper air.
His ribs are tender, and his eye
Is small and wicked, wondrous sly;
His heart is black and fickle.
Beware his vast and blubbery back;
His slumbrous sides do not attack,
Nor ever seek to tickle.
His dreams are not profound or deep,
He only plays at being asleep;
His snoring is a snare.
He, floating on the inky sea,
A sunny island seems to be,
Although a trifle bare.
Conniving gulls there strut and prink,
Their job it is to tip the wink,
If any one lands there
To make a picnic tea, or get
Relief from sickness or the wet,
Or some, perhaps, to settle.
Ah! foolish folk, who land on Him,
And patent stoves proceed to trim,
Or make incautious fires
To dry your clothes or warm a limb,
Who dance or prance about the glim —
‘Tis just what He desires.
And when He feels the heat He dives
Down to the deeps: you lose your lives
Cut off amid your sins.
This mighty monster teaches us
That trespassing is dangerous,
And perils lurk in wait
For curious folk who peep in doors
Of other folk, or dance on floors
Too early or too late
That too much grease in worse than none,
To spare the margarine on bun
Content with what one has
That many noises loud and strong
Are neither music nor a song
But only just a band.
„Приключения из неестествознанието и средновековните поетични стъпки, бидейки приумици на Физиологиус”.
В „Списание Стейпълдън”, Оксфорд, том 7, № 40 (юни 1927), стр. 123–125.
Преработен вариант, под името „Истукитолин”, е публикуван в „Приключенията на Том Бомбадил”.