R P Lister kept a lot of his work in scrapbooks. This is the first post of many featuring some of these poems. Click on the image below to see it in full resolution.
Soap has a beauty wholly of its own,
Being compounded of most stinking fats
Boiled up with caustic soda in great vats.
Solid it is, the likeness of a stone,
Yet still the source of airy bubbles, blown
Through Christmas pipes by men in funny hats;
Which bubbles fly around the room like bats
Round evening mansions, desert and alone.
When they have travelled but a little way
These bubbles burst, leaving the blank wall signed
With fading soap. So man, blown up from clay,
Shimmers around and leaves small trace behind.
And that, I think, is all I have to say
Of soap, and bats, and bubbles, and mankind