Ode to a Coat

(A Pome in the style of Ogden Nash)

Let me sing you a song of my life in unhappier times,
Freshly arrived in London from more temperate climes.
I was prepared for the ice and snow, or so I thought,
Thanks to the big grey overcoat that from home I’d brought.
But when you think about it, I really should have known better,
Because while Cape Town, compared to London, is windier, wilder and wetter,
When it comes to temperatures that invite comparison to a witch’s titty
I think you can guess which is the worser city.
Shopping at “Coats for Africa” should have tipped me off.
I wasn’t going to Africa. I was going much further norf.

Now, that was my first visit to this great metropolis, but not the last;
Five years later I returned for a longer stay, minding the lessons I’d learned in the past.
But I still only had that painfully inadequate big grey overcoat, and why?
Because I was broke and coats were expensive, and I thought I could manage if I had to try.
By Christmas time, suffice to say,
I was simply desperate to try my luck in the coat departments in the sales on Boxing Day.
The which I did, and when I found what I had come for,
At last I understood what all those joyful carols were being sung for.

I took my coat home. Ever since it has treated me well.
And every winter I am freshly reminded of why I love it more than words can tell.
It’s not just the soft black fabric, the furry trim on the cuff,
The high fluffy collar that just about reaches my ears and warms them enough
That I could, if I chose, do away with the scarf and hat.
(Which is excellent news considering I prefer my hair more bouncy, and less flat.)
Plus, in a happy accident of fashion,
This year the coat is highly en vogue, being of a style distinctly Russian.
All these attributes are wonderful, to be sure,
But the root of my love is something deeper, more pure:
This coat, you see, with its magical properties has quite simply changed my life.
It has ended the annual elemental strife.
This coat means I can now get from A to B without turning blue,
And if you think I’m exaggerating, all I can say is, be glad it has never happened to you.
What is more, it comes into its own in this silly party season,
Justifying its entire existence with this one fantastic reason:
I can, and have, venture into the deepest darkest wilds of (say) icy Essex, almost wearing something utterly scandalous and with nothing to protect me from the sub-zero breeze but this amazing coat,
Which I think you’ll agree is worth rather more than a groat.

Forget what the poet tells you, beauty isn’t truth, beauty is warmth, and warmth alone.
No one can be beautiful when they’re bundled up in six layers of clothing and despite this they’re still freezing cold and having a good moan.
If in the depths of winter, you want to get some use out of that “Ode to a Grecian Urn”,
I suggest you light a blazing logfire, take the poem and let it burn.

So now, when the days draw in and the roads are turning slippery,
My heart leaps with joy as I haul out my winter frippery.
Hat, scarf, gloves and boots all do their duty,
But nothing can match my fabulous, furry, phenomenal winter coat for sheer cosmic beauty.

PS. If, through no fault of your own, you failed to enjoy my verse,
Count your blessings. I could have done it in the epic style of Homer, which would have been infinitely worse.