Just look at Nature, personified here as "Primavera" –the spaghetti that goes best with Sumiregusa sauce.

If Nature is this beautiful, and who are we to argue with that, Master Spy, then what about a “green leaf”?

Yes, green sleeves are also a creation of Nature, a cymbal of life and joy and goodness until you have to rake them. And when do you rake them, classh? When your parents TELL you to – good for you!

Which brings me, of course, to the final line in this stanza: “autumn colors.” Here Roma sets our feet firmly in the muck of Autumn, with its decaying leaves of red and gold. Did you know that the autumn leaves drift by my window, and talk to me? Yes, they do, Miss Spoken.

Why, this is existentially Vivaldian, classh: we move from spring, to winter, to fall – three out of four seasons isn’t bad, eh? Have you ever thought what would have happened if Mr. Vivaldi had only written “Three Seasons”? Never mind, studnuts, I can see the toothpicks between your eyelids.

So, then, classh, what have we here but a kind of RONDO– in which we circumference the seasons of the year, though still waiting for elusive summer to beam down upon us all.

Be that as it may, we must forge ahead on “Sumiregusa” (on sale now at half price with any purchase of Donizetti Spaghetti, the pasta that makes you cook like an artist) with the following line:

The voice of the windy

How totality and udderly sweet of Roma to take note of my dulcet tones! She must have heard me singing in the Choir of Lost Keys, at our Lady of Poor Pitch Cathedral. What, Master Full, that’s NOT what she wrote? Are you sure, dear?

Oh my, you are indeed correct. I really do need new reading galoshes! What Roma really wrote, alas, was this:

The voice of the wind

Now, who has herd the wind? What does it sound like? Yes, Miss Rhine? Rolling thunder, you say. An apt analogy, for those of you who know what an analogy is. No, Master Card, it has nothing at all to do with ragweed.

The voice of this wind, so sayeth Roma, is also a pregnant, er, poignant thing! Think of how the wind blows gently in Spring, then not at all during summer vacation when you are all sun-bathing instead of working at McBurgers to earn your university intuitions. Then in autumn the wind picks up and the leaves fall down – what an interesting physics phenomenon, eh? A ying-yang thing-thang.

Alas, though, how in winter the wind bellows so loudly that you could not even hear Mother Superioriosa when’s she just stubbed her toe on the sharp point of her new pool table. Her language is so very poignant at that moment, but I refuse to digress on the grounds it may decriminalize me.

So, and thus, the wind has many, many voices depending on what seasoning is used. Yes, you’re correct, Miss Cooked – garlic is very good. So, classh, next time you are let out, go listen to the wind, go talk to the wind - trust me, it’s really a breeze, and you’ll all love its deep heart-stopping baritone.

Now we must emote upon the following line:

The song of birds

Now, here we have a plethora of songs and birds to consider, even enough for an entire album! Did you know, my dears, that Tchaikovsky wrote a piano piece for each of the 12 months and released it in less than five years? You did! Of course you did, but I digress…..

Now, where was I? Oh yes, here, in Room 007. “The song of birds” – but, what birds does Roma have in mind, or even in hand? For a bird in the hand is worth two George Bushes!

The Irish cuckoo? What a deluminating thought, Miss Created, though I fear that that bird has become extinguished. Yes, too much Guinness did it in, how sad, though it went quite happily I suspect.

Yes, little OperaKait at the back? The “Chick with a Dee”? No, dear, that’s a Hip Hop group, we all know that – well, at least those of us still able to hip and hop. Dear little girl, please stop waving your hands around and doing very odd things with your fingers. Thank you.

Now, think about the robin! No, not just the American Robin, but also the European Robin – or, how about the sparrow, the junkie or the flinch? Or the robolink, or the crow! So many birds, so little time (quoting Mr. M. Jagger) – why, it could start me raven!!

But, whatever the birds may be, they are likely very malodorous, with a sweet effect on our glistening ears.

Now, classh, we have another Ryan movement: Roma is still exculpating her list of poignant things. Now she adds to her list:

A sad sea

Yes, a sad sea indeed! Can you see the sad sea, classh? Enveloped in deep, dark, dreary nebulosity, as if a metaphor for the human state of almost existing. Oh, you cannot see it, Miss Diagnosed, because it is raining outside and a great big cloud is embracing the school? Perhaps we shall have to leave this point for a day without rain, then.

However, classh, I assure you that our friend the sea is sad– and do you know why? Of course not, so I’ll tell you: you sea, er, see, we all know that Roma Ryan’s High adopted a dolphin at Christmas through the International Dolphin Adoption Agency of Lower Middlesex in East Angling, and the sea is, alas, grieving its loss. Yes, we sent our dolphin to a lovely, balmy place called “Canada” where it frolics among the icebergs and the goldbergs.

But the sea will recover from this loss and thus will become:

A joyful sea

Now the sea seems so softly smiling to see, you see. Can you say that quickly ten times, Miss Spoken? No? Well, neither can Mother Superioriosa!! But the sea is indeed joyful: as that famous song says, "Joy to the Sea, the Sun Has Come!"  At last we see the sea with beams on its face – and I do hope it is using Number 30 Sunblock. A sunburned sea would be sad to see, see?

Well, now that we have seen the sea in its varietal moods, lettuce see what Roma sees as poignant next:

Mountains

Yes, what splendiferous crags we now gaze upon. Capped with snow, pure as a driven Mercedes Bent. One driven only on Sundays by Sister Gearshift. On sale for a reasonable price at OBOY. But I seem to be digressing……..

Mountains! Yes, classh, the ultimate Freudian phallic cymbal!! Roma takes us to the Height of Poignancy here: we feel, deeply feel, the heaving of the mountain, the movement of the snow – the movement of the snow? Run, classh, run! It’s an avalanche! Oh my, did I get carried away, or what? Yes, Master Card, “what” is indeed the correct answer.

And now we descend from the mountains unto the

Pebbles

I am reminded here of "Pebbles in the Stream,” a song by the Bee Wees I do bewieve, and certainly NOT by Roma, whose pebbles are much more poignant and lack falsetto!

Mountains are really just humungous piles of pebbles, after all. Take a pebble, put another pebble upon it, and, after several millennia have passed, presto: a mountain! In less time than a new Enya album, some would say, but not me. I am exceedingly patient, for so Roma wishes me to be.

And now, studnuts, we declude the song with:

A Wild Iris

Now, studnuts, look at this lovely, delicate wild iris I have brought here especially for today’s classh. And be not afraid: this wild iris is no ogre at all, but rather a dainty, fragile flower of the field. Can you smell its poignant fragrance? Oh dear, Miss Anthrope, please give Master Piece a box of Kleenex; he seems allergic to wild violets, er, irises.

Thus, and to preclude, all these poignant things, as enumerated by Roma, find their natural climax in the image of a wild iris, the ultimate poignancy of all poignancy, I do believe, having plucked a few myself during my wild youth. But our beloved Roma wishes us to stop and smell the flowers, gaze upon mountains and sneeze, er, seas, hear the wind blow, and listen to the birds. In other words: Live in the Moment, at least Momentarily!!

And at such a poignant moment we bid farewell to “Sumiregusa” and hope that he/she/it finds the perfect spaghetti to embrace, whole Western wheat if possible. And lots of onion and garlic too. Takes one’s breath away, away, away, you know. And let us give thanks to our dear Roma, after whom a special spaghetti tomato has also been named. May she find great joy in the wild purple flowers of the world.

Classh dismissed!