Summary

Annette Vallon, the mother of William Wordsworth's child, critiques his poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" and demands child support through a satirical rewrite of his work.

Abstract

In a humorous and pointed response to William Wordsworth's famous poem, Annette Vallon, the poet's former lover and mother of his child, pens a scathing critique and rewrite. She chastises Wordsworth for his abandonment and failure to provide for their daughter, drawing parallels between his behavior and the unreliable nature of clouds. Vallon's reimagined poem, "I Wandered Only as a Cad," highlights Wordsworth's neglect and broken promises, juxtaposing his romanticized solitude with the reality of her situation as a single mother. The piece concludes with a threat to publish the revised poem, urging Wordsworth to fulfill his financial obligations.

Opinions

Annette Vallon expresses her frustration with William Wordsworth's abandonment and his failure to honor his promise of child support.
She criticizes Wordsworth's self-portrayal as 'lonely as a cloud,' comparing it to his unreliable nature as a parent and partner.
Vallon demonstrates her own poetic ability, crafting a satirical version of Wordsworth's poem that underscores her grievances and demands accountability.
She implies that Wordsworth's romantic escapades and poetic pursuits are frivolous compared to the tangible responsibilities of parenthood.
Vallon hints at a potential public exposure of Wordsworth's personal failings if he does not meet his obligations, suggesting a willingness to use his own poetry against him.

William Wordsworth’s Ex Rewrites ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’

Annette Vallon wants the poet to pay up, or else

Photo by **Suzy Hazelwood** from **Pexels**

Mon cher William,

I’ve just read your latest poem. Hmm. You wandered lonely, did you? What would you know of lonely? After our little affaire de coeur, you took off and left me here — alone! — to raise our love-child.

Yet now you’re lonely “as a cloud”? A CLOUD! Well, maybe a cumulus cloud, which really can’t be trusted. It morphs into a cumulonimbus and drips on people. Or a stratocumulus — the kind that follows along after a cold front (that was us toward the end, n’est-ce pas?).

No. Wait. You’re more of a cirrus duplicatus. A double-crossing duplicatus. C’est ça!

When you read those words, I know you’ll complain I’m just being literal again. “Too literal to appreciate a deeply poetic person such as yourself,” I think you said. Well, think again.

Because I can write poetry too. I said to myself: A, B, A, B, C, C — how hard can it be? And quelle surprise! My daffodil poem practically wrote itself.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not mad that you married Mary Hutchinson (although she’s plain as a palissade, poor thing). Your sister Dorothy convinced me Mary was better suited for you when she dragged you here in 1802 to meet our nine-year-old. (I always liked Dorothy, so I went along with it. Although she has atrocious taste in bonnets. But what can you expect? She’s English.)

The issue is, William, you promised me then that you’d start sending regular child support. But month after month, what do I get? Nothing. Absolument rien! A promise is a promise. So I ask you: What is your WORD worth, M. Wordsworth? (Admit it. That was clever.)

You leave me no choice, chéri. I’ve taken it upon myself to revise your little poem (see below). I think it’s pretty good. Publishable, even. I may send it out. Read it and let me know if you’ll finally be sending support for our growing girl.

Mille baisers,

Annette

I Wandered Only as a Cad A confession, by William Wordsworth

(First published as “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” modifié par la mère de son bébé, Annette Vallon.)

I wandered only as a cad Who buggered off to English hills, I’m nothing but a deadbeat dad Out tromping in the daffodils; I went to France, I had a fling Left her with a daughter, but no ring.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, I fed her never-ending lines Of how we two would wed one day: I rue the cost of that romance, Poets can’t get a cash advance.

I promised I’d return someday And meanwhile I would pay her bills: Instead I fritter hours away Out strolling through the daffodils. I gaze — and gaze — with little thought To how Annette should feed our tot.

But now, while on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, There flashes on my inward eye The certainty that I am screwed; Annette will not forgive my debt. She’ll send this to the French Gazette.

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Judy Millar is a Canadian humorist. Visit her online, connect on Twitter, or enjoy these stories below:

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