A.J. Prufrock's chanson d'amour

I'm writing a lipogrammatic translation of a famous work of Tom's. My first draft is shown below. My first parsing of it took it to lipogram status, and I shall visit it again for a final polish.

A.J. Prufrock's chanson d'amour

Why not go now, you and I
Whilst this gloaming's languid against its sky
as if it lay unconscious on a slab
Why not go through familiar but not crowding roads
Through murmuring lodgings
of tiring nights in short-stay tawdry inns
sawdust food-halls with scallop casings
Paths that follow, akin to boring discussions
Of implicit aim
To point you to an inundating inquiry
Oh do not ask “what is it?”
Why not go now and both visit

In my room ladyfolk pass on by
Talking of Buonorotti

A mustard fog that rubs its back upon a window’s glass
A mustard smog that rubs its lips upon a window’s glass
Tonguing into all of this gloaming’s nooks,
Floats aloft from ponds that stand in drains
Allows to fall upon its back dark ash that falls from roof stacks
Slips by a row of housing, without warning jumps,
And noticing this soft autumnal month
Curls all about my lodging for a kip

And opportunity will follow
For mustard smog that slips along my road
Rubbing its back upon all window glass;
Opportunity, opportunity
To form a look to confront looks in turn
Opportunity to kill and bring about
And opportunity for all works and days of hands
That lift and drop an inquiry in your bowl;
Instants for both you and I,
Instants too for a myriad don’t-knows,
A myriad drafts of a myriad sights,
Prior to taking of toast and chai.

In my room ladyfolk pass on by
Talking of Buonorotti

And opportunity too
To ask “Do I risk it for a small affair?”
Now to turn back, and go downstairs
With a bald spot tonsuring my hair
(all will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to my chin,
My cravat rich and civil, but stuck fast by a worn old pin--
(All will say: “But how his limbs now grow so thin!”)

Do I risk it
Disturbing this continuum?

In an instant, opportunity
For picking paths and making drafts which an instant can undo.

For I know all instants now, known instants all—
Known gloamings, mornings, nights and noons
Brought my mortal story out with sugar spoons
I know all babbling dying with a dying fall
Drowning in music from a distant room
My assumption is too soon?

And all looks I know by now, known looks all
Looks that fix you with sly formulaic words
And whilst I’m but a formula, sprawling on a pin
Whilst on a pin and wriggling on a wall,
How should I now start
To spit out all cigar butts of my days and ways?
My assumption is too soon?

And all arms I know by now, known arms all—
Arms with shining bands and palid and fair
(but whilst in lamplight, a down of august hair!)
Is it odour from a gown
Causing my thoughts to roam?
Arms lying along a worktop or that wrap about a shawl.
My assumption is too soon?
And how should I now start?
……

Shall I say, I brought my body down narrow roads,
Watching smog rising out of roof stacks
Of solitary chaps, tilting out of windows…
If only I had had a form, a pair of worn down claws
Scuttling across our sub-aquatic floors.
……

And so past noon, and gloaming, kips so placidly!
A smoothing of long digits,
Akip… worn out … or dawdling stays,
upon our floor, along from both of us
Should I, whilst full of chai, hot and cold pudding.
Find it in my soul to bring this instant’s flooding?
Though in my past I cry and fast, cry and pray,
Though I saw my skull (grown slightly bald) brought in within a bowl,
This is of small import—I am no guiding soul;
I saw my hour of distinction pass,
And I saw that undying footman hold my coat, and laugh,
And, in short, I was afraid.

And would my account find nothing owing
With cups, and citrus jams, and chai
Amongst this china clay, a bit of talk of you and I
Would it finally show profit
If grinning I bit this thing to stop it
So pushing this continuum into a ball
To roll it towards an inundating inquiry,
To say “I am Lazarus, back from passing,
Back to inform you all, I’ll inform you all”—
If a lady puts a pillow by that lady’s skull
Should say: “That is not what I said at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would my account find nothing owing
Would it finally show profit
Past many sundowns, many dooryards, and rain-slick roads,
Past many books, past china cups, past many skirts that trail along a floor—
Past an unfinishing list of things?--
I hold an inability to say what I’d imply!
But as if a magic box had on a backdrop shown my axons laid out tidily:
Would it finally show profit,
If a lady, placing pillows or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward a window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I said at all.”
……

No! I am no Danish dauphin, nor was that my path;
Am an assisting lord, such that will do,
To push a plot or start an act or two,
Inform my royal lord; no doubt a tool,
My Duty won, and glad to carry out,
Politic, cautious, and assiduous
Full of high standing, but short on clout;
Occasionally ridiculous—
Occasionally his Fool.

I grow old… I grow old….
I‘ll don a pair of slacks, its bottoms fold
Shall I part my hair at back? Do I risk having a plum?
I shall don my slacks with turn-ups, and walk upon a strand.
I know singing by aquatic nymphs, but only from dry land.

I do not think that song is for my favour sung.

I saw nymphs riding out on tidal flows
Combing strands of hair on surf blown back
As winds blow its foam both ivory and black
Our past was too long paid in coastal rooms
By nymphs with plants for clothing, blush and brown
Till human talking stirs us, so to drown.

I should point out that my saying "ladyfolk" is a rarity.