A modern marvel
Relief from the usual barrage against Dotard Trump and dancing on the political grave of Peter Mandelson: my homage to Andrew Marvell’s poem Bermudas
Where the bespoke Bermudas ride
On sated tourists, plumply thigh’d,
And Palm Beach suitings come to greet
The guaranteed sub-tropic heat,
A Margarita’d poolside throng
Delivered up this holy song:
“How should we render HILTON’s praise
Who searched through these undiscovered bays
To find us a land so far unknown
And make it the image of our own?
The boundless sea he had in-filled,
With pre-stressed walls the tide was stilled:
Where waves once crashed on empty sand
The jumbo jet may safely land.
The idle streams he dammed to make
One azure artificial lake,
Where safe from the tides’ and trippers’ reach,
He laid a freshly-sanded beach,
Laundered each day, of sea-wrack clean,
Served by a synthesized-wave machine.
But let us rather hymn the fame
Of the Hotel that bears his name
In giant letters orange-bright
As master of the neon night.
There for the packaged journeying man,
Every arrangement shows his plan.
He gave us air-conditioning
Which temporizes everything
And makes the climate fit for mink.
He made the water safe to drink,
And, for our pleasure, filled the wind
With subtle scents and music tinned.
With waxen fruit his rooms were lined,
Lusher than the unvarnished kind.
In custom-built bazaars he shows
Imported local curios.
Yet would we sing of HILTON’s gifts:
Escalators, express lifts,
Ever-watered tennis lawn,
Room TV with choice of porn.
Steaming saunas, his and hers,
With aromatic Thai masseurs,
Londoner’s pub (its lighting low-key),
Hawaiian bar (with karaoke).
O that our praise resounding may
Echo throughout our fortnight stay:
Let us with grateful glory greet
Him who has made a dream, concrete.