Stupidity
Stupidity, woe’s anodyne, Be kind and comfort me in mine; Smooth out the furrows of my brow, Make me as carefree as a cow, Content to sleep and eat and drink And never think
Seville
My Pa and Ma their honeymoon Passed in an Andulasian June, And though produced in Drury Lane, I must have been conceived in Spain. Now having lapsed from fair estate, A coster’s is my
The Sniper
Because back home in Tennessee I was a champeen shot, They made a sniper outa me An’ ninety krouts I got: I wish to Christ I’d not! Athinkin’ o’ them blasted lives It’s kindo’
The Trust
Because I’ve eighty years and odd, And darkling is my day, I now prepare to meet my God, And for forgiveness pray. Not for salvation is my plea, Nor Heaven hope, just rest: Begging:
Silence
When I was cub reporter I Would interview the Great, And sometimes they would make reply, And sometimes hesitate; But often they would sharply say, With bushy eyebrows bent: “Young man, your answer for
On The Boulevard
Oh, it’s pleasant sitting here, Seeing all the people pass; You beside your bock of beer, I behind my demi-tasse. Chatting of no matter what. You the Mummer, I the Bard; Oh, it’s jolly,
Ernie Pyle
I wish I had a simple style In writing verse, As in his prose had Ernie Pyle, So true and terse; Springing so forthright from the heart With guileless art. I wish I could
Tri-Colour
Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It’s blood, I tell you, it’s blood. It’s gleaming wet in the grasses; it’s glist’ning warm in
The Volunteer
Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. Go, let ’em plaster every blighted wall, ‘Ere’s ONE they don’t stampede into the ranks. Them politicians with
Sensibility
I Once, when a boy, I killed a cat. I guess it’s just because of that A cat evokes my tenderness, And takes so kindly my caress. For with a rich, resonant purr It
The Cow-Juice Cure
The clover was in blossom, an’ the year was at the June, When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O’Flynn’s saloon. The frost was on the fodder an’ the wind was growin’ keen, When
No More Music
The Porch was blazoned with geranium bloom; Myrtle and jasmine meadows lit the lea; With rose and violet the vale’s perfume Languished to where the hyacinthine sea Dreamed tenderly. . . “And I must
Lucindy Jane
When I was young I was too proud To wheel my daughter in her pram. “It’s infra dig,” I said aloud, Bot now I’m old, behold I am Perambulating up and down Grand-daughter through
Her Toys
I sat her in her baby chair, And set upon its tray Her kewpie doll and teddy bear, But no, she would not play. Although they looked so wistfully Her favour to implore, She
Cocotte
When a girl’s sixteen, and as poor as she’s pretty, And she hasn’t a friend and she hasn’t a home, Heigh-ho! She’s as safe in Paris city As a lamb night-strayed where the wild