OK. I’ve long really loved this song and I’m not about to explain why, at least not in the first person. But myxomatosis is fascinatingly awful to the entrant to the UK, as we don’t have anything like it in the USA. Here’s the wiki description:
In rabbits of the genus Sylvilagus (cottontail rabbits), myxomatosis only causes localized skin tumors, but the European rabbit (Oryctolagus cuniculus) is more severely affected. At first, normally the disease is visible by lumps (myxomata) and puffiness around the head and genitals. It then may progress to acute conjunctivitis and possibly blindness; however, this also may be the first indication of the disease. The rabbits become listless, lose appetite, and develop a fever. Secondary bacterial infections occur in most cases which cause pneumonia and purulent inflammation of the lungs. In typical cases where the rabbit has no resistance death may take place with frightening rapidity, often in as little as 48 hrs. Death takes an average of 14 days.
Go read more of the wiki description for the absolutely fucked history of the spread of the disease. Horrific, and horrifically stupid mankind is. And you have no idea how many stories rural brit types have told me about how mixy rabbits are handled here. Benevolently bashed against a tree, charitably run over by cars. Here’s why you do that, Americans:
Jesus christ, this world, huh? But now to the point of the post. Philip Larkin’s poem on the subject:
Caught in the center of a soundless field
While hot inexplicable hours go by
What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed?
You seem to ask.
I make a sharp reply,
Then clean my stick. I’m glad I can’t explain
Just in what jaws you were to suppurate:
You may have thought things would come right again
If you could only keep quite still and wait.
Again, jesus god. Everyone forever should leave Larkin alone because to write one like this I’d give, well, I’d almost suppurate. Strange word that. Basically the verbal form of pus. To pus. Where the hell did Larkin find that? And the sort of miscross with piggish Latin “to be supper for someone” is the key. The rabbit’s misunderstanding of its problem crosses with our misunderstanding of the latinate word. Brilliantly disturbing line, eh, when you think about it, mixing the conjunctivitisy pus with fox’s rabbit for dinner. And that colon at the end of the third to last line really really bothers me in a vividly fucked up sort of way. Tragic punctuation. Think I’ll go back to the strangely more optimistic Radiohead song before I start to worry about my listlessness and lost appetite in a different manner than I already do. Or worry about the fact that I somehow think things will come right again if I can only keep quite still and wait.