A special tribute to Terry Pratchett

[News and reviews about the works of Sir Terry Pratchett]

Wossname
Newsletter of the Klatchian Foreign Legion
March 2015 (Volume 18, Issue 3, Post 2)

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WOSSNAME is a free publication offering news, reviews, and all the other 
stuff-that-fits pertaining to the works and activities of Sir Terry 
Pratchett. Originally founded by the late, great Joe Schaumburger for 
members of the worldwide Klatchian Foreign Legion and its affiliates, 
including the North American Discworld Society and other continental 
groups, Wossname is now for Discworld and Pratchett fans everywhere in 
Roundworld.
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A message from your Editor:

This paean by "Weird Alice Lancrevic" was published a few years ago in 
an issue of Wossname. I can think of no better time to share it with you 
again, with love and sadness.

– Annie Mac, Editor

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THE LOVE SONG OF T D J PRATCHETT


Let us go then, you and I,
When the Rimfall is spread out against the sky
Like a victim on Quetzovercoatl's altar
Let us go, through certain dark Ankh-Morpork streets,
As Cumbling Michael bleats
Of restless nights in Elm Street's cheap bedsits
And Harga's restaurant with greasy chips
Streets that follow like a Fools' Guild argument
Of a humorous intent
To lead you to an overt wealth of... footnotes!
Oh, do not play Greek Chorus
Let us go and dance Dark Morris.

In the room the wizards come, unseen
Talking of thaumic octarine.

The Morpork smog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The river-fug that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the Bucket,
Lingered upon the gargoyles guarding drains,
Let fall upon its back the black of lithe Assassins,
Slipped by the terrace, writhed round Sator Square,
And seeing that it was a soft Sektober night,
Curled once around the Tump, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be crime
Under Ankh-born fumes that slide down Easy Street,
Rubbing grey-black upon the window-panes; Disc-ing itself
There will be crime, and barely time
To prepare a voucher for the Thieves that you may meet;
There will be time to say the number Eight,
And time for all Devices wrought by dwarfs
That lift this brawling City toward its fate;
Time for Schleppel, time for Reg,
And time yet for an Igor's deft incisions,
And for a Sweeper's history revisions,
Before the taking of meat and two veg.

In the room the wizards come, unseen
Making a joke about the Dean.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare? Will Vimes go spare?'
Time to turn back Time and deeds repair,
With P.L.T. making horrors of my hair—
[They will say: 'How she stoops, to wear the tin!']
My armoured breasts, my collar fastened firmly 'neath my chin,
My pedigree's the oddest, but blue-blooded via lupine kin—
[They will say: 'But she's a vegetarian!']
Do I dare
Disturb the multiverse?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which the Moon will soon reverse.

For I have known the grags already, known them all—
Have known the meetings, mineshafts, Ankhian ruins,
I have squandered all my gold in greasy spoons;
I know the old life's dying, like an axe's fall
Beneath the bustle under cellar rooms.
So should I mention Koom?

And I have known the toffs already, known them all—
The eyes that damn you with a far too inbred phrase,
And when I am relegated, tossed like Mr Pin,
When I am told 'No comment!' by Lord Rust,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all Spike's butt-ends from the Golem Trust?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the 'girls' already, known them all—
Arms of that painted Guild, pale, white and calm
(But in the lamplight, best of Mrs Palm's!)
Is it scumble from a dish
That makesh me shpeak like thish?
Arms that twine around a client, or cap a maiden's fall.
And should I rent a room?
How soon should I dig in?

.      .      .      .      .

Shall I say, I have lurked at dusk in Morpork's streets
And watched the Clacks that clatter from the roofs
Midst lonely geeks with code-books, changing shifts in towers? . . .

I should have been a cruel wild banshee's claws
Scuttling between the Trouserlegs of Time.

.      .      .      .      .

And 'til well past noon, Young Sam will sleep so peacefully!
Smooth is his breathing,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or merely teething
Safe in his bed, here beside you and me.
Should I, after teetotal libations,
Have the strength to foil yet more assassinations?
But though I have cursed and shouted, growled and coughed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] fetch ever higher prices
I am no genius — but I'm cool in crisis;
I have seen the sternest of my Watchmen flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Death of Rats go SNH, and snicker,
And in short, I was pissed off.

And would it have been worth it all, and sweet,
After millennium hand and shrimp for tea,
Among the Faculty, among some talk of Sourcery,
Would it have been worth while
To endure Ridcully's hassling with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe's rubber sheet
To roll it toward some thaumic insurrection,
To say: 'We are wizardry's future, come have fun
'Come HEX me up a treat, H.E.M. is neat!'
If one, scoffing a sausage inna bun,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant to eat.
'That is not real named meat.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the battles and the broadswords and the trampled thrones,
After the sagas, after the horse cheese, after the skirts I chased from 
Rim to Hub—
And dine-chewers for my grub?—
It is 'barbarian' to say just what I mean!
But seen by a magic lantern through a silken Agatean screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, scuttling a Dark Lord or storming Io's gate
To turn larks into legends, should say:
'That's not a hero's fate,
'That's not a deathless hero's fate.'

No! I am not King Verence, nor was meant to be;
I'm just a tender Tomjon, one who'll do
To thrill the punters, steal a scene or two
Advise the prince; he jingles, but he's cool,
Deferential to the senior Ogg
Mildly thick, gracious, and fond of his wife;
Full of high purpose, but a bit agog;
At times, indeed, a cliche brought to life—
Almost a perfect Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall yet wear midnight when the nights are cold.

Shall I shout 'Io's not blind!'? Do I dare to speak of Klatch?
I shall wear black pointy headgear, and fly on brooms of thatch
I have heard the Beggars, canting to the Watch.

I do not think that they will beg from me.

We have seen young vampires gliding past the Moon
Combing the land for humans to attack
Venting their blood-lust stylishly in black.

We have lingered on the shambling Circumfence
By sea-trolls wreathed with foam against the sky
Till Great A'Tuin takes us, and we fly.


(with abject apologies to T S Eliot)

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