Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the
beach,
With a him.
And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach,
On the limb;
Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking
And the dudelet is a-smoking
Cigarettes;
And the hackman is a-hacking
And the showman is a-cracking
Up his pets;
Yes, the Jersey ’skeeter flits along
the shore
And the snapdog—we have heard
it o’er and o’er;
Yes, my poet,
Well we know it—
Know the spooners how they spoon
In the bright
Dollar light
Of the country tavern moon;
Yes, the caterpillars
fall
From the trees
(we know it all),
And with beetles all the shelves
Are alive.
Please unbuttonhole
us—O,
Have the grace
to let us go,
For
we know
How you Summer poets thrive,
By the recapitulation
And insistent
iteration
Of the wondrous doings incident to Life
Among
Ourselves!
So, I pray you stop the fervor
and the fuss.
For you, poor
human linnet,
There’s
a half a living in it,
But there’s not a copper
cent in it for us!
ARTHUR McEWEN.
Posterity with all its eyes
Will come and view him where he lies.
Then, turning from the scene away
With a concerted shrug, will say:
“H’m, Scarabaeus Sisyphus—
What interest has that to us?
We can’t admire at all, at all,
A tumble-bug without its ball.”
And then a sage will rise and say:
“Good friends, you err—turn
back, I pray:
This freak that you unwisely shun
Is bug and ball rolled into one.”
|
