Cotton-wool comfort, cotton-wool,
oh, the insufferable pride of the faintly stirred
compassionate,
the cheek,
the cotton-wool urge to do good;
a flimsy, flobsy, have-some-coffee blind,
quite, quite blind urge
to do a little good
(and be a little god herself. So stupid,
so hypocritical,
so heart-weepingly proud.
As Lucifer).
The railings in the coffee cups
- mouth-smiling, eye-hard -
at the snobs, the name-droppers,
the “when-we-had-Sir-Preston-in”s.
She
was the little sister of the unimportant.
She knew (she thought).
Like Lucifer.
And served, on bended knees,
her cotton-wool self.
(undated, 1972?)
