'Tis true he is not quite a priest, Nor more than half a preacher; But he exhorts as loud at least As any living creature.
And when the plate is passed about He never takes a penny out.
From Buddha down to Rankin! There,-- I never did intend to.
This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear, Such subjects to descend to.
When from the humming-bird I've wrung A plume I'll write of Mike de Young.
AN IDLER
Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?--who Had nothing better in this world to do?
Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase?
Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot, Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot, Stir his compassion and inspire his arms To hide from human eyes its faded charms?
If not to works of piety inclined, Then recreation might have claimed his mind.
The harmless game that shows the feline greed To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A]
Is better sport than victimizing Creed; And a far livelier satisfaction comes Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B]
If neither worthy work nor play command This gentleman of leisure's heart and hand, Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift By hope of profit to some deed of thrift.
Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin, No tin to mend, no glass to be put in, No housewife worthy of a morning visit, Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit?
Lo! the blind sow's precarious pursuit Of the aspiring oak's familiar fruit!-- 'Twould more advantage any man to steal This easy victim's undefended meal Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so Expose the state to his narcotic flow!
[Footnote A: "Pussy Wants a Corner."]
[Footnote B: "Simon Says Thumbs Up."]
THE DEAD KING
Hawaii's King resigned his breath-- Our Legislature guffawed.
The awful dignity of death Not any single rough awed.
But when our Legislators die All Kings, Queens, Jacks and Aces cry.
A PATTER SONG
There was a cranky Governor-- His name it wasn't Waterman.
For office he was hotter than The love of any lover, nor Was Boruck's threat of aiding him Effective in dissuading him-- This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.
To citrus fairs, _et caetera_, He went about philandering, To pride of parish pandering.
He knew not any better--ah, His early education had Not taught the abnegation fad-- The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering!
He conjured up, _ad libitum_, With postures energetical, One day (this is prophetical) His graces, to exhibit 'em.
He straddled in each attitude, Four parallels of latitude-- The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unaesthetical!
An ancient cow, perceiving that His powers of agility Transcended her ability (A circumstance for grieving at) Upon her horns engrafted him And to the welkin wafted him-- The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!
A CALLER
"Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well."
Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail, He entered that serene assassin's cell And hung his hat and coat upon a nail.
"I think that life in this secluded spot Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?"
"Well, yes," said Goldenson, "I can't complain: Life anywhere--provided it is mine-- Agrees with me; but I observe with pain That still the people murmur and repine.
It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt, To see a persecuted man grow stout."
"O no, 'tis not your growing stout," said Death, "Which makes these malcontents complain and scold-- They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath.
What they object to is your growing old.
And--though indifferent to lean or fat-- I don't myself entirely favor _that_."
With brows that met above the orbs beneath, And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared, And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth, The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered: "O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuage Your spongy passion for the blood of age?"
Death with a clattering convulsion, drew His coat on, hatted his unmeated pow, Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through, Turned and made answer: "I will _show_ you how.
I'm going to the Bench you call Supreme And tap the old women who sit there and dream."
THE SHAFTER SHAFTED
Well, James McMillan Shafter, you're a Judge-- At least you were when last I knew of you; And if the people since have made you budge I did not notice it. I've much to do Without endeavoring to follow, through The miserable squabbles, dust and smudge, The fate of even the veteran contenders Who fight with flying colors and suspenders.
Being a Judge, 'tis natural and wrong That you should villify the public press-- Save while you are a candidate. That song Is easy quite to sing, and I confess It wins applause from hearers who have less Of spiritual graces than belong To audiences of another kidney-- Men, for example, like Sir Philip Sidney.
Newspapers, so you say, don't always treat The Judges with respect. That may be so And still no harm done, for I swear I'll eat My legs and in the long hereafter go, Snake-like, upon my belly if you'll show All Judges are respectable and sweet.
For some of them are rogues and the world's laughter's Directed at some others, for they're Shafters.
THE MUMMERY
THE TWO CAVEES
DRAMATIS PERSONae.