VAGUE STORY
| Perchance it was her eyes of blue, Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, Her figure in proportion true To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth— I cannot tell—I do not know. He may have had a rival, who Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And, being luckier of the two, Defeated him with triumph cruel; Then she may have proved false, and turned To welcome to her arms his foe, Left him despairing, conquered, spurned— I cannot tell—I do not know. So oft such woes will counteract The thousand ecstacies of love, That you may fix on base of fact The story hinted at above; But all on earth so doubtful is, Man knows so little here below, That, if you ask for proof of this, I cannot tell—I do not know. Walter Parke. |
HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW
| He stood on his head by the wild seashore, And danced on his hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig. And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sailed For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed. Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt. He had borne the old lady through thick and thin, And she lectured him out of breath; And now as he looked at the ship she was in He howled for her violent death. He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He'd consider his happiness crowned. He watched till beneath the horizon's edge The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge And pranced like a kangaroo. He watched till the vessel became a speck That was lost in the wandering sea; And then, at the risk of breaking his neck, Turned somersaults home to tea. Walter Parke. |
ON A DEAF HOUSEKEEPER
| Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man To hire as a domestic a deaf woman. I've got one who my orders does not hear, Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near. Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a drink; She bustled out, and brought me back some ink. Eating a good rump-steak, I called for mustard; Away she went, and whipped me up a custard. I wanted with my chicken to have ham; Blundering once more, she brought a pot of jam. I wished in season for a cut of salmon; And what she brought me was a huge fat gammon. I can't my voice raise higher and still higher, As if I were a herald or town-crier. 'T would better be if she were deaf outright; But anyhow she quits my house this night. Unknown. |
HOMŒOPATHIC SOUP
| Take a robin's leg (Mind, the drumstick merely); Put it in a tub Filled with water nearly; Set it out of doors, In a place that's shady; Let it stand a week (Three days if for a lady); Drop a spoonful of it In a five-pail kettle, Which may be made of tin Or any baser metal; Fill the kettle up, Set it on a boiling, Strain the liquor well, To prevent its oiling; One atom add of salt, For the thickening one rice kernel, And use to light the fire "The Homœopathic Journal." Let the liquor boil Half an hour, no longer, (If 'tis for a man Of course you'll make it stronger). Should you now desire That the soup be flavoury, Stir it once around, With a stalk of savoury. When the broth is made, Nothing can excell it: Then three times a day Let the patient smell it. If he chance to die, Say 'twas Nature did it: If he chance to live, Give the soup the credit. Unknown. |
SOME LITTLE BUG
| In these days of indigestion It is oftentimes a question As to what to eat and what to leave alone; For each microbe and bacillus Has a different way to kill us, And in time they always claim us for their own. There are germs of every kind In any food that you can find In the market or upon the bill of fare. Drinking water's just as risky As the so-called deadly whiskey, And it's often a mistake to breathe the air. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Then he'll send for his bug friends And all your earthly trouble ends; Some little bug is going to find you some day. The inviting green cucumber Gets most everybody's number, While the green corn has a system of its own; Though a radish seems nutritious Its behaviour is quite vicious, And a doctor will be coming to your home. Eating lobster cooked or plain Is only flirting with ptomaine, While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say, But the clams we eat in chowder Make the angels chant the louder, For they know that we'll be with them right away. Take a slice of nice fried onion And you're fit for Dr. Munyon, Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train. Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit" And a grave you'll soon inhabit— Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish game. Eating huckleberry pie Is a pleasing way to die, While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain. When you eat banana fritters Every undertaker titters, And the casket makers nearly go insane. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, With a nervous little quiver He'll give cirrhosis of the liver; Some little bug is going to find you some day. When cold storage vaults I visit I can only say what is it Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff? Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy If a stomach pump is handy And your doctor can be found quite soon enough. Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles And the headstone cutter chuckles, While the grave digger makes a note upon his cuff. Eat that lovely red bologna And you'll wear a wooden kimona, As your relatives start scrappin 'bout your stuff. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Eating juicy sliced pineapple Makes the sexton dust the chapel; Some little bug is going to find you some day. All those crazy foods they mix Will float us 'cross the River Styx, Or they'll start us climbing up the milky way. And the meals we eat in courses Mean a hearse and two black horses So before a meal some people always pray. Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis, And the juice leads to gastritis, So there's only death to greet us either way; And fried liver's nice, but, mind you, Friends will soon ride slow behind you And the papers then will have nice things to say. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day Eat some sauce, they call it chili, On your breast they'll place a lily; Some little bug is going to find you some day. Roy Atwell. |
ON THE DOWNTOWN SIDE OF AN UPTOWN STREET
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On the downtown side of an uptown street Is the home of a girl that I'd like to meet, But I'm on the uptown, And she's on the downtown, On the downtown side of an uptown street. On the uptown side of the crowded old "L," I see her so often I know her quite well, But I'm on the downtown When she's on the uptown, On the uptown side of the crowded old "L." On the uptown side of a downtown street This girl is employed that I'd like to meet, But I work on the downtown And she on the uptown, The uptown side of a downtown street. On a downtown car of the Broadway line
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