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A line-o'-verse or two
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Then they too at each other
Looked “with a wild surmise.”
Jimson had stock in Traction,
And Jones had stock in Gas,
And Smith and Brown in this and that,
So – nothing came to pass.
The profligates of Our Town
Pitch pennies as of yore;
Police corruption flourishes
As rankly as before,
Still are our gilded ginmills
Foul palaces of shame.
Reform is just as distant
As when the wise men came.
WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK
When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter – where he’d rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
BREAD PUDDYNGE
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And his idea of what to eat
Was a good bag puddynge.
The bag puddynge he had in mind
Was thickly strewn with plums,
With alternating lumps of fat
As big as my two thumbs.
“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,
“We have a joust to-day —
Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,
And all the brave array.
“Put everything across to-night
In guise of goodly fare,
And cook us up a bag puddynge
That will y-curl our hair.”
“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,
“As tight as tight can be;
I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge
From my new recipee.”
“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”
That night the King did say;
“But save a little room – a bag
Puddynge is on the way.
“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,
A famous feast ’twill be.
Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,
From her own recipee.”
“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught
I love ’tis this same thing.”
And he and all the knights did fall
Upon that bag puddynge.
One taste, and every holy knight
Sat speechless for a space,
While disappointment and disgust
Were writ in every face.
“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,
“In all my days, by Jing!
I ne’er did taste so flat a mess
As this here bag puddynge.”
“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,
Whose license knew no bounds,
“I would to Godde I had this stuff
To poultice up my wounds.”
King Arthur spat his mouthful out,
And sent for Guinevere.
“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.
“Is this a joke, my dear?”
“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,
Her face a rosy red.
“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:
I made it out of bread!”
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And only once in all his reign
Was made a Bread Puddynge.
MUSCA DOMESTICA
Looked “with a wild surmise.”
Jimson had stock in Traction,
And Jones had stock in Gas,
And Smith and Brown in this and that,
So – nothing came to pass.
The profligates of Our Town
Pitch pennies as of yore;
Police corruption flourishes
As rankly as before,
Still are our gilded ginmills
Foul palaces of shame.
Reform is just as distant
As when the wise men came.
WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK
When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter – where he’d rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
BREAD PUDDYNGE
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And his idea of what to eat
Was a good bag puddynge.
The bag puddynge he had in mind
Was thickly strewn with plums,
With alternating lumps of fat
As big as my two thumbs.
“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,
“We have a joust to-day —
Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,
And all the brave array.
“Put everything across to-night
In guise of goodly fare,
And cook us up a bag puddynge
That will y-curl our hair.”
“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,
“As tight as tight can be;
I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge
From my new recipee.”
“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”
That night the King did say;
“But save a little room – a bag
Puddynge is on the way.
“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,
A famous feast ’twill be.
Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,
From her own recipee.”
“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught
I love ’tis this same thing.”
And he and all the knights did fall
Upon that bag puddynge.
One taste, and every holy knight
Sat speechless for a space,
While disappointment and disgust
Were writ in every face.
“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,
“In all my days, by Jing!
I ne’er did taste so flat a mess
As this here bag puddynge.”
“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,
Whose license knew no bounds,
“I would to Godde I had this stuff
To poultice up my wounds.”
King Arthur spat his mouthful out,
And sent for Guinevere.
“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.
“Is this a joke, my dear?”
“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,
Her face a rosy red.
“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:
I made it out of bread!”
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And only once in all his reign
Was made a Bread Puddynge.
MUSCA DOMESTICA
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