Now hungrily the sheet we scan,
Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary,
And then—nothing is sadder than
[Footnote PointingHand: No diner on till after Erie.]
Yet, cursed as is every sign,
The cussedest that we can quote is
This treacherous and deadly line:
[Footnote TripleAsterisk: Subject to change without our notice.]
Sporadic Fiction
Why not a poem as they treat
The stories in the magazines?
"Eustacia's lips were very sweet.
He stooped to"-and here intervenes
A line—italics—telling one
Where one may learn the things that he,
The noble hero, had begun.
(Continuation on page 3.)
Page 3—oh, here it is—no, here—
"Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head;
Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear'—
And sweetly low Eustacia said:"
(Continued on page 17.)
Here, just between the corset ad.
And that of Smithers' Canderine.
(Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.)
"No, no, not that! But let me tell
You why I scorn your ardent kiss—
Not that I do not love you well;"
No, Archibald, the reason's this:
(Continued on page 24.)
Turn, turn my leaves, and let me learn
Eustacia's fate; I pine for more;
Oh, turn and turn and turn and turn!
"Because—and yet I ought not say
The wherefore of my sudden whim."
Here Archibald looked at Eusta-
Cia, and Eustacia looked at him.
"Because," continued she, "my head—"
I never knew Eustacia's fate,
I never knew what 'Stacia said.
(Continued on page 58.)
Popular Ballad: "Never Forget Your Parents"
A young man once was sitting
Within a swell cafe,
The music it was playing sweet—
The people was quite gay.
But he alone was silent,
A tear was in his eye—
A waitress she stepped up to him, and
Asked him gently why.
(Change to Minor.)
He turned to her in sorrow and
At first he spoke no word,
But soon he spoke unto her, for
She was an honest girl.
He rose up from the table
In that elegant cafe,
And in a voice replete with tears
To her he then did say:
CHORUS
Never forget your father,
Think all he done for you;
A mother is a boy's best friend,
So loving, kind, and true,
If it were not for them, I'm sure
I might be quite forlorn;
And if your parents had not have lived
You would not have been born.
A hush fell on the laughing throng,
It made them feel quite bad,
For most of them was people, and
Some parents they had had.
Both men and ladies did shed tears.
The music it did cease.
For all knew he had spoke the truth
By looking at his face.
(Change to Minor.)
The waitress she wept bitterly
And others was in tears
It made them think of the old home
They had not saw in years.
And while their hearts was heavy and
Their eyes they was quite red.
This brave and honest boy again
To them these words he said:
CHORUS
Never forget, etc.
Ballade to a Lady
(To Annabelle.)
Pipe to the tip I'm handing, Kid;
Get jerry to the salve I throw;
Just paste it in your merrywid
While I pull out the tremolo.
This stuff ain't any paper snow—
I never was a bull con gee—
Wise up to this and sing it slow:
You make an awful splash with me.
My line of bunk is like to skid;
(The subject is so smooth—get joe?)
My fountain pen's an invalid;
I can't dope words like L. Defoe
Puts in describing up a show,
But, kiddo, you have put the bee
On father, surest thing you know.
You make an awful splash with me.
Yop, I'm your little katydid;
Just listen to my chirp of woe;
And now I've made my little bid—
You get it? Follow me? Right-O!
If I could shoot like Eddie Poe,
I guess that you'd be h-e-p,
But here's the bet, now cop it, bo,
You make an awful splash with me.
L'ENVOI
Well, this is where the stuff I stow,
According to old Francois V;
But—once again before I blow—
You make an awful splash with me.
To a Thesaurus
O precious codex, volume, tome,
Book, writing, compilation, work
Attend the while I pen a pome,
A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.
For I would pen, engross, indite,
Transcribe, set forth, compose, address,
Record, submit—yea, even write
An ode, an elegy to bless—
To bless, set store by, celebrate,
Approve, esteem, endow with soul,
Commend, acclaim, appreciate,
Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.
Thy merit, goodness, value, worth,
Expedience, utility—
O manna, honey, salt of earth,
I sing, I chant, I worship thee!
How could I manage, live, exist,
Obtain, produce, be real, prevail,
Be present in the flesh, subsist,
Have place, become, breathe or inhale.
Without thy help, recruit, support,
Opitulation, furtherance,
Assistance, rescue, aid, resort,
Favour, sustention and advance?
Ala Alack! and well-a-day!
My case would then be dour and sad,
Likewise distressing, dismal, gray,
Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.
* * *
Though I could keep this up all day,
This lyric, elegiac, song,
Meseems hath come the time to say
Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!
The Ancient Lays
I cannot sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
But I can always hear them
At any vodevil show.
Erring in Company
("If I have erred I err in company with Abraham
Lincoln."—THEODORE ROOSEVELT.)
If e'er my rhyming be at fault,
If e'er I chance to scribble dope,
If that my metre ever halt,
I err in company with Pope.
An that my grammar go awry,
An that my English be askew,
Sooth, I can prove an alibi—
The Bard of Avon did it, too.
If often toward the bottled grape
My errant fancy fondly turns,
Remember, jeering jackanape,
I err in company with Burns.
If now and then I sigh "Mine own!"
Unto another's wedded wife,
Remember I am not alone—
Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?
If frequently I fret and fume,
And absolutely will not smile,
I err in company with Hume,
Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.
If e'er I fail in etiquette,
And foozle on The Proper Stuff
Regarding manners, don't forget
A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.
Eke if I err upon the side
Of talking overmuch of Me,
I err, it cannot be denied,
In most illustrious company.
The Limit
While I hold as superficial him who has his young initial
Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette,
Such a bit of affectation I can view with toleration,
Such a folly I forgive and I forget.
Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides the cyclemotor
I dislike a little more than just enough;
But you might as well be knowing that the guy who gets me going
Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Now I've builded many a verse on that extremely stylish person
Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue;
I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly were none of
My blanked business—and I knew that it was true.
At the shameless subway smoker I have been a ceaseless joker——
For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff—
But the one that makes me maddest is that pestilential faddist
Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff.
I'm a passive, harmless hater of the vari-coloured gaiter
That the men of the Rialto will affect;
Of the loud and sassy clother, I'm a quiet, modest loather,
And to comic section weskits I object.
But, as I have intimated, hinted, innuendoed stated,
Of the things that I believe are awful stuff,
Nothing starts my indignation like the silly affectation
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff——
E-nough!
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Chorus for Mixed Voices
(Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from the piazza when a dozen boat loads go out on the lake of a summer evening.)
How can I bear to good old Yale the shades of Upidee
That's where my heart is weep no more in sunny Tennessee
How dear to heart grows weary far from meadow grass is blue
Above Cayuga's waters we will sing I'm strong for you.
A Spanish cava fare thee well and everything so fine
That's where you get your old black Joe my darling Clementine
The old folks would enjoy it on the road to Mandalay
'Twas from Aunt Dinah's polly-wolly-woodle all the day.
I hear those good night ladies much obliged because we're here
Afraid to go home in the with a good song ringing clear
Just tell them that fair Harvard old Nassau is shining bright
How can I bear to grand old rag we roll along good night!
The Translated Way
(Being a "lyric" translation of Heine's "Du Bist
Wie Eine Blume," as it is usually done.)
Thou art like to a Flower,
So pure and clean thou art;
I view thee and much Sadness
Steals to me in the Heart.
To me it seems my Hands I
Should now impose on your
Head, praying God to keep you
So fine and clean and pure.
"And Yet It Is A Gentle Art!"
(Parody is a genre frowned upon by your professors of literature… And yet it is a gentle art— "The Point of View" in May Scribner's.)
A sweet disorder in the verse
That never looks behind
Shall profit not who steals my purse,
Let joy be unconfined!
How vainly men themselves amaze!
The stars began to blink,
An art that there were few to praise,
Nor any drop to drink.
O sleep, it is a blessed thing
Which I must ne'er enjoy!
There never was a fairer spring
Than when I was a boy.
One fond embrace and then we part!
Good—by, my lover, good-by!
And yet it is a gentle art,
Which nobody can deny.
Occasionally
Now and then there's a couple whose conjugal life
Is happy as happy can be;
Now and then there's a man who believes that his wife
Is the One Unsurpassable She;
There are doubtless in England a great many folks
Whose humour is airy and sage;
But there never is one in American jokes
Or on the American stage
Now and then there's an auto that doesn't break down,
Or an angler who catches some fish;
Now and then there's a pretty society gown
Or a girl that breaks never a dish;
There is haply a Croesus who isn't a hoax.
Or a jest that's not hoary with age;
But there never is one in American jokes
Or on the American stage.
Now and then there's a poet with closely cropped hair,
Or a sporting man quiet in dress;
Now and then there's a lady from Boston who's fair,
Now and then there's a fetterless press;
Now and then there's a laugh that a jester may coax,
A librettist may put on his page—
But they're terribly rare in American jokes,
And—oh, the American stage!
Jim and Bill
Bill Jones was cynical and sad;
He thought sincerity was rare;
Most people, Bill believed, were bad
And few were fair.
He said that cheating was the rule;
That nearly everything was fake;
That nearly all, both knave and fool,
Were on the make.
Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun;
He thought the world a lovely place,
Exhibiting to every one
A smiling face.
He thought that every man was fair;
He had no cause to sob or sigh;
He said that everything was square
As any die.
Dear reader, would you rather be
Like Jim, not crediting the ill,
Joyous in your serenity,
Or right, like Bill?
When Nobody Listens
At not at all infrequent spells
I hear—and so do you—
The tales that everybody tells
And no one listens to.
"You talk about excitement. Well
Last summer, up at Silver Dell,
Jim Brown and I took a canoe
And paddled out a mile or two.
When we left shore the sun was out—
Serenest day, beyond a doubt,
I ever saw. When suddenly
It thunders, and a heavy sea
Comes up. 'I'm goin' to jump,' says Jim.
He jumps. I don't know how to swim,
And I was scared…"
"You ought to see
My kid. He's great! He isn't three.
But smart? Last night his mother said,
As she was putting him to bed,
'Tom, are you sleepy?' Well, the kid—
What d'ye think he up and did?
Laugh? Honestly, we nearly died!
He said:…"
"Last week I had a ride
As was a ride! We took my car
And ran her over night so far
We had to stop. Just as we came
To this side of North Burlingame,
We tore a shoe; the left front wheel
Got loose and . . . "
"Did you ever feel
That dogs were human? Well, there's Bruce,
My collie—brighter than the deuce!
Just talk in ordinary tones—
A joke, he barks, speak sad, he moans,
The other day I said to him,
'Here, Bruce, take this to Uncle Jim,'
And gave . . . "
"We've really got the best
And cheapest flat in town. On West
Two-Forty-Third Street. That ain't far—
The subway, then the Yonkers car—
An hour, perhaps a little more.
I leave the house at 7.04—
I'm in the office every day
At nine o'clock. Six rooms are all
We have, if you don't count the hall—
Though it is bigger far than most
The rooms I've seen. I hate to boast
About my flat; but . . . "
"Say, I've got
The greatest, newest, finest plot—
Dramatic, humorous, and fresh—
And, though I'm not in the profesh,
I'll back this little play of mine
Against Pinero, Fitch, or Klein.
Sure fire! A knockout! It can't miss!
The plot of it begins like this:
The present time—that's what they've got
To have—and then a modern plot.
Jack Hammond, hero, loves a girl:
Extremely jealous of an earl.
The earl, however… "
Why contin-
Ue types that flourish adinfin?
O tuneless chimes! O worn-out bells!
I hear—and so do you—
The tales that everybody tells
But no one listens to.
Office Mottoes
Motto heartening, inspiring,
Framed above my pretty *desk,
Never Shelley, Keats, or Byring*
Penned a phrase so picturesque!
But in me no inspiration
Rides my low and prosy brow—
All I think of is vacation
When I see that lucubration:
DO IT NOW
When I see another sentence
Framed upon a brother's wall,
Resolution and repentance
Do not flood o'er me at all
As I read that nugatory
Counsel written years ago,
Only when one comes to borry[Footnote: Entered under the Pure License of
1906.]
Do I heed that ancient story:
TELL HIM NO
Mottoes flat and mottoes silly,
Proverbs void of point or wit,
"KEEP A-PLUGGIN' WHEN IT'S HILLY!"
"LIFE'S A TIGER: CONQUER IT!"
Office mottoes make me weary
And of all the bromide bunch
There is only one I seri-
Ously like, and that's the cheery:
GONE TO LUNCH
Metaphysics
A man morose and dull and sad—
Go ask him why he feels so bad.
Behold! He answers it is drink
That put his nerves upon the blink.
Another man whose smile and jest
Disclose a nature of the best—
What keeps his heart and spirit up?
Again we learn it is the cup.
The moral to this little bit
Is anything you make of it.
Such recondite philosophy
Is far away too much for me.
Heads and Tails
If a single man is studious and quiet, people say
He is grouchy, he is old before his time;
If he's frivolous and flippant, if he treads the primrose way,
Then they mark him for a wild career of crime.
If a man asserts that So-and-So is beautiful or sweet,
He is daffy on the proposition, Girl;
If he's weary in the evening and he keeps his subway seat,
He's immediately branded as a churl.
If he buys a friend a rickey not for any special cause,
He is captain of the lush-and-spendthrift squad;
If, before he spends a million, he will think a bit and pause,
There's a popular impression he's a wad.
If a man attends to business and looks to every chance,
He is mercenary, money-mad, and coarse;
If he thinks of art and letters more than personal finance,
He is lacking in ambition and in force.
If a man but bats his consort oh-so-gently on the head,
If he throttles her a little round the neck,
He's a brute; if he's considerately conjugal instead,
Everybody calls him Mr. Henry Peck.
Lowers Scylla—frowns Charybdis—and the bark is like to sink—
This the symbolistic moral of my rhyme—
If Opinion trims your sails and if you care what people think
You will have a most unhappy sort of time.
An Election Night Pantoum
Gaze at the good-natured crowd,
List to the noise and the rattle!
Heavens! that woman is loud—
Loud as the din of a battle.
List to the noise and the rattle!
Hark to the honk of the horn
Loud as the din of a battle!
There! My new overcoat's torn!
Hark to the honk of the horn!
Cut out that throwing confetti!
There! My new overcoat's torn—
Looks like a shred of spaghetti.
Cut out that throwing confetti!
Look at the gentleman, stewed;
Looks like a shred of spaghetti—
Don't get so terribly rude!
Look at the gentleman, stewed!
Look at the glare of the rocket!
Don't get so terribly rude,
Keep your hand out of my pocket!
Look at the glare of the rocket!
Take that thing out of my face!
Keep your hand out of my pocket!
This is a shame and disgrace.
Take that thing out of my face!
Curse you! Be decent to ladies!
This is a shame and disgrace,
Worse than traditions of Hades.
Curse you! Be decent to ladies!
(Heavens! that woman is loud.)
Worse than traditions of Hades
Gaze at the "good-natured" crowd!
I Cannot Pay That Premium
Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean and white,
A loving couple they did sit and all seemed pleasant, quite;
They did not have no servant the things away to take,
For he was but a broker who much money did not make.
(Key changes to minor.)
He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife did say:
"Your life insurance it will lapse if it you do not pay."
He turned from her in sorrow, for breaking was his heart,
And in a mezzo barytone to her did say, in part:
CHORUS:
"I cannot pay that premium, I'll have to let it go;
It fills me with remorse and sorrow, not to mention woe.
Though I'm quite strong and healthy, and will outlive you, perhaps,
I cannot pay that premium; I'll have to let it lapse."
The wife she naught did answer, for it cut her to the quick;
She washed the dishes, filled the lamp, and likewise trimmed the wick;
She took in washing the next day and played bridge whist all night,
Until she had enough to pay her husband's premium, quite.
(Key changes to minor)
The husband he was thrown next day from his au-to-mo-bile,
And although rather lonesome it did make his widow feel,
It made her glad to know that she had paid that prem-i-um,
And oftentimes in after years these words she'd softly hum:
CHORUS:
"I cannot pay that premium," etc.
Three Authors
Prolific authors, noble three,
I do my derby off to ye.
Selected, dear old chap, who knows
The quantity of verse and prose
That you have signed in all these years!
You've dulled how many thousand shears!
You've filled, at a tremendous rate,
A million miles of "boiler plate"—
A wreath of laurel for your brow!
A stirrup-cup to you—here's how!
And you, dear Ibid. Ah, you wrote
Too many things for me to quote,
Though Bartlett, of quotation fame,
Plays up your unpoetic name
More than he did to Avon's bard.
Your stuff's on every page, old pard.
Bouquets to you the writer flings;
You wrote a lot of dandy things.
And you, O last, O greatest one,
A word with you, and I have done
Your, dear Exchange, that ever floats
Around with verses, anecdotes,
And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign
(Quite frequently a thing of mine).
Why, it would not be very strange
If I should see this signed—Exchange.
O favourite authors, wondrous three,
I do my derby off to ye!
To Quotation
(Caused by "The Ethics of Misquotation" in the
November Atlantic Monthly.)
Quotation! Brother to the Arts, assister
to the Muse!
When Bartlett from his study height unfurled
thine heaven-born hues,
The quotes were here, the quotes were there,
the quotes were all around,
For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the
heels of sound.
Pernicious habit! One becomes a worse than
senseless block,
A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer
care to knock;
A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and
curious lore,
An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing
more.
Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle
rain from heaven,
Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the
stars on thy head are seven.
Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly,
he who runs may read,
But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves
me poor indeed.
I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest
in peace—
From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy
Isles of Greece.
Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy
sans let or end
With me abide, O handy guide, philosopher,
and friend.
Melodrama
R
If you want a receipt for a melodramatical,
Thrillingly thundery, popular show,
Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical,
Driving his daughter out into the snow;
The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty;
Hate of a villain in evening clothes;
Comic relief that is Irish and racketty;
Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths;
The bank and the safe and the will and the forgery—
All of them built on traditional norms—
Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery
Helping the villain until she reforms;
The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery;
Violin music, all scary and shivery;
Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious;
Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious;
Bingo!—the rescue!—the movement goes snappily—
Exit the villain and all endeth happily!
Take of these elements any you care about,
Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout;
Put in the powder and leave out the grammar,
And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.
A Poor Excuse, But Our Own
(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
—A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks—
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays "fire" or "train."
Likewise a girl, aetatis eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!"
All through the vernal afternoon
My other neighbour's children skate
A wild Bacchantic rigadoon
On rollers; nor does it abate
Till dark; and then his babies cry
What time I fain would versify.
Did I but set myself to sing
A children's song, I'd stand revealed
A bard that did the infant thing
As well as Riley or 'Gene Field.
I could write famous Children Stuff,
If they'd keep quiet long enough.
Monotonous Variety
(All of them from two stories in a single magazine.)
She "greeted" and he "volunteered";
She "giggled"; he "asserted";
She "queried" and he "lightly veered";
She "drawled" and he "averted";
She "scoffed," she "laughed" and he "averred";
He "mumbled," "parried," and "demurred."
She "languidly responded"; he
"Incautiously assented";
Doretta "proffered lazily";
Will "speedily invented";
She "parried," "whispered," "bade," and "mused";
He "urged," "acknowledged," and "refused."
She "softly added"; "she alleged";
He "consciously invited";
She "then corrected"; William "hedged";
She "prettily recited";
She "nodded," "stormed," and "acquiesced";
He "promised," "hastened," and "confessed."
Doretta "chided"; "cautioned" Will;
She "voiced" and he "defended";
She "vouchsafed"; he "continued still";
She "sneered" and he "amended";
She "smiled," she "twitted," and she "dared"
He "scorned," "exclaimed," "pronounced," and "flared."
He "waived," "believed," "explained," and "tried";
"Commented" she; he "muttered";
She "blushed," she "dimpled," and she "sighed";
He "ventured" and he "stuttered";
She "spoke," "suggested," and "pursued";
He "pleaded," "pouted," "called," and "viewed."
O synonymble writers, ye
Whose work is so high-pricey.
Think ye not that variety
May haply be too spicy?
Meseems that in an elder day
They had a thing or two to say.
The Amateur Botanist
A primrose by a river's brim Primula vulgaris was to him, And it was nothing more; A pansy, delicately reared, Viola tricolor appeared In true botanic lore.
That which a pink the layman deems Dianthus caryophyllus seems To any flower-fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his, Annuus helianthus is, And it is nothing more.
A Word for It
"Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not,
I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle,
Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel,
Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot,
An so it made my Pegasus to trot
His morning lap what time he heard the bell;
An so it made the poem stuff to jell—
To mix a met.—an so it boil'd the pot.
Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit!
I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats.
"Scorn?" Nay, I love thy fine symmetric
grace.
In sonnets one knows always where to quit,
Unlike in other poems where one cheats
And strings it out to fill the yawning
space.
The Poem Speaks
(Cut this out in either case.)
Poet, ere you write me,
Stem the flowing ink;
Or that you indite me
Pause upon the brink.
Strummer of the lyre
Maker of the tune,
Give me a desire—
Bless me with a boon.
Let me be a rondeau
With a sweet refrain,
Or an aliquando
Sonnet to the rain;
Let me be a lyric
Tenuous as air,
Or an a la Viereck
Passion song to hair;
Ballad, epic, quatrain,
Couplet—ay, a line—
"Let it rain or not rain,
Let it storm or shine."
Shape me as you list to,
Glorious or small;
Put a comic twist to
Anything at all.
Only give me fame that
Never, never dies,
Christen me a name that
Reaches to the skies.
This is my ambition:
Not the greatest rhyme,
Not the first position
On the page of time—
But, O poet, steep me,
Till, with gum and hooks,
Womenfolk will keep me
In their pocket-books!
"Bedbooks"
(There is said to be a steady demand for "bedbooks" in England. There are readers who find in Gibbon a sedative for tired nerves; there are others who enjoy Trollope's quiet humour. Some people find in Henry James's tangled syntax the restful diversion they seek, and others enjoy Mr. Howells's unexciting realism. —The Sun.)
How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction,
Like that appearing in the best
Of modern fiction!
When sleeplessness the Briton claims,
And hits him with her wakeful wallop,
He goes to Gibbon or to James,
Or maybe Trollope.
No paltry limit, such as those
The craving-slumber Yankee curses—
He has a wealth of poppy prose
And opiate verses.
A grain of—ought I mention names
And say whence sleep may be inspired?
Is it the thing to say of James,
"He makes me tired?"
To say "a dose of Phillips, or
A capsule of Sinclair or Brady,
Is just the thing to make me snore?"
Oh, lackadaydee!
Nay! It were churlish to review
And specify by marked attention
Our bedbooks. They are far too nu-
Merous to mention.
A New York Child's Garden of Verses
(With the usual.)
I
In winter I get up at night,
And dress by an electric light.
In summer, autumn, ay, and spring,
I have to do the self-same thing.
I have to go to bed and hear
Pianos pounding in my ear,
And hear the janitor cavort
With garbage cans within the court.
And does it not seem hard to you
That I should have these things to do?
Is it not hard for us Manhat-
Tan children in a stuffy flat?
II
It is very nice to think
The world is full of food and drink;
But, oh, my father says to me
They cost all of his salaree.
III
When I am grown to man's estate
I shall be very proud and great;
E'en now I have no reverence,
'Cause I read comic supplements.
IV
New York is so full of a number of kids
I'm sure pretty soon we shall be invalids.
V
A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to;
And then, when manhood's age he strikes,
He may be boorish as he likes.
Downward, Come Downward
(With apologies to the estate of Elizabeth Akers Allen.)
Downward, come downward, O Cost in your flight,
Soaring like Paulhan or W. Wright!
Prices, come down from the limitless sky,
Down to the reach of the Ultimate Guy.
Once you were not quite so far from the ground;
Once we had lamb chops at 10c. a pound.
Give us the days ere the cost took a leap,
When things were cheap, mother, when they were cheap.
Backward, flow backward, O Living's Advance,
Back from the purlieus of Airy Romance!
Back to the days when a porterhouse steak
Didn't cost half of what people could make!
Back to the days when a regular egg
Didn't drive people to borrow and beg!
Oh, for the days when the hog and the sheep
Were not as diamonds—when they were cheap.
Speaking of Hunting
When a button rolls under the bureau
The search is a woeful affair;
And the humorous weekly describes it but meekly
In saying the hunter will swear.
But what is that limited anger?
The impotent rage of a cub!
I only grow what you could really call hot
When the soap slips under the tub.
I've sought through a time-table's mazes,
And sworn at the men who devise
That scare and delusion of hopeless confusion,
That intricate bundle of lies.
But never a hunt that was harder,
Be you or professor or dub,
Than that ill-fated jest—I refer to the quest—
When the soap falls back of the tub
My paste pot escapes almost daily;
My scissors I never can find;
And I am the rotter who loses a blotter
More often than if he were blind.
But sooner a myriad searches
Than go to the worry and troub.
That one little cake saponaceous can make
When the soap slips under the tub—
Blank! Blank!
When the soap slips under the tub.
The Flat-Hunter's Way
We don't get any too much light;
It's pretty noisy, too, at that;
The folks next door stay up all night;
There's but one closet in the flat;
The rent we pay is far from low;
Our flat is small and in the rear;
But we have looked around, and so
We think we'll stay another year.
Our dining-room is pretty dark;
Our kitchen's hot and very small;
The "view" we get of Central Park
We really do not get at all.
The ceiling cracks and crumbles down
Upon me while I'm working here—
But, after combing all the town,
We think we'll stay another year.
We are not "handy" to the sub;
Our hall-boy service is a joke;
Our janitor's a foreign dub
Who never does a thing but smoke
Our landlord says he will not cut
A cent from rent already dear;
And so we sought for better—but
We think we'll stay another year.
Birds and Bards
When Milton sang "O nightingale
That on yon gloomy spray,"
The sonneteer whom we revere
Lauded that birdie's lay.
While Keats's ode upon that bird
Was limpid as the notes
That, sweet and strong, were in the song
Of Philomelian throats.
And Bryant's "To a Water-fowl!"
Had praise in every line,
And every word about the bird
Impinged on the divine.
When Wordsworth did the skylark stuff,
He praised the bird a few,
And Shelley's ode sincerely showed
He liked the skylark, too.
O Poets, if ye had but dwelt
Upon a Harlem block,
Fain would I read your poems sweet
Upon the sparrows' "Peet! Peet! Peet!"
The sparrows that have built their nest
Ten feet from where one takes one's rest,
And 'gin their merry, blithesome song
Each morning—quenchless, clear and strong
Promptly at four o'clock.
A Wish
(An Apartmental Ditty.)
Mine be a flat beside the Hill;
A vendor's cry shall soothe my ear
A landlord shall present his bill
At least a dozen times a year.
The tenor, oft, below my flat,
Shall practise "Violets" and such;
And in the area a cat
Shall beat the band, the cars, and Dutch.
Around the neighbourhood shall be
About a hundred thousand kids;
And, eke in that vicinitee,
Ten pianolas without lids.
And mornings, I suppose, by gosh,
I'll be awakened prompt at seven,
By ladies hanging up the wash
Only a mile or so from heaven.
The Monument of Q.H.F.
AD MELPOMENEN
Horace: Book III, Ode 30.
"Exegi monumentum aere perennius. Regalique situ pyramidum altius"
Look you, the monument I have erected
High as the pyramids, royal, sublime,
During as brass—it shall not be affected
E'en by the elements coupled with Time.
Part of me, most of me never shall perish; I shall be free from Oblivion's curse; Mine is a name that the future will cherish— I shall be known by my excellent verse.
I shall be famous all over this nation
Centuries after myself shall have died;
People will point to my versification—
I, who was born on the Lower East Side!
Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me?
I want a wreath that is Delphic and green,
Seven, I think, is the size that will fit me—
Slip me some laurel to wear on my bean.