(This is another poem, originally published in Duchamp Magazine, that I place in the genre "children's literature for adults." The titular Marcel is a small dog, a terrier snub of snout, who in reality is not a beautician but clearly would be in the alternative universe of anthropomorphized animals.)
J. E. H. Smith
If you’re from one of the four-footed folk,
Or if you’re two-footed, but hatched from a yolk,
You still must be mindful to do up your hair,
Before your appearance on land or in air
Among other creatures of your kin and kind,
First tend to your face. Pay it some mind!
But if you need help before you set out,
If you can’t seem to do a darn thing for your snout,
All hope is not lost, there’s no need to pout,
Thanks to Mr. Marcel.
For creature care that’s always right,
—And we don’t mean this to sound snooty—
But if you’re nocturnal and you’ve got a big night,
Or you’re diurnal, but look a fright in daylight,
There’s only one place for you to go:
And that’s Marcel’s House of Beauty.
There’s matted-haired oxen and sweaty gnus
Getting shampoos Lord knows they could use.
The camel is having her ample humps drained,
She claims it’s relaxing, though looks rather pained.
There’s gabbing gazelles and yammering yaks,
Gossiping under the dryers,
But the proper hyrax won’t have any of that.
She knows ungulates are all liars.
There’s a few guinea pigs and one stylish rat,
On her whiskers, curlers; on her tail, some wax,
But it’s a rare day indeed that you’ll see a wombat,
Thanks to the municipal marsupial tax.
Marcel would service any beast,
Right down to bacteria, amoebas, and yeast,
(Except, we must note, for the gorgeous gorilla,
Who saunters in dressed to the nines.
He refers the madame to the new Primate Parlour,
Down the street just a couple of vines.)
And as for the hippos, aardvarks, and boars,
Well, he does the best that he can,
Each is beautiful in her own special way,
Says Marcel.
And he means it, that magnanimous man!
Marcel’s the most sought after beauty artiste
This side of Mt. Kilimanjaro,
And if he’s booked up buffing buffalo hooves,
You’ll be lucky to squeeze in tomorrow.
But look! What’s this? Why, it looks like a bitch.
And she’s been in one hell of a scuffle.
“Oh Mr. Marcel! Please help me at once!
I’m a mess. Now fix me up! Shuffle!!”
“Relax, m’lady, I’ll get you cleaned up,”
Replies Marcel with a grin,
“Just as soon as I’m done with Ms. Millipede’s pedicure,
I’m sure I can fit you right in.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do, I need you at once,”
Growls the hysterical pup.
“I’m expected on stage in under an hour.
My fans need me! Now hurry up.”
“Well of course,” he responds,
“I know who you are:
You’re that famous canine starlet,
You’re a goddess, you’re a queen,
You’re the chanteuse fameuse, Sophie Charlotte!”
“Yeah that’s me, now let’s get moving,
Leave that bug to cool her heels,
She’s got a thousand anyway.
(Man, I wonder how that feels.)”
So off he went to work on her,
To cleanse the bloodstains and pick out the burrs,
To replace torn-off patches with synthetic hair,
And to make sure her belly was fash’nably bare.
And as he swiftly restored her glamour,
She coolly dangled a slim cigarette,
Blew kisses and smoke-rings towards herself in the mirror,
And grinned, and coyly called him “my pet”.
“You’ve worked wonders, I’m impressed.
I dare say I’ve never looked quite so fine.
I’m already stunning and I’m not even dressed.
Meet me backstage. The show ends at nine.”
She kissed his flat nose and was gone in a flash.
And Marcel felt woozy, ready to faint.
But then he came to with a sobering splash,
Of toenail polish in his face from the bug,
With 694 toes left to paint.
So there he sat, solemnly doing his duty,
Painting Ms. Millipede’s toes until dawn.
For it’s just in this way that Marcel’s House of Beauty
Endures when the starlets are faded and gone.
--Istanbul, 2003
