Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 6

When the Festal Board, as the papers say, Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat, At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner, (As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat) At breakfast, then, if I may repeat, This is what gets me into a huff, This is a query I cannot beat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

I've broken my fast with the grave and gay, With hoi polloi and with the elite; I've been all over the U. S. A.

From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.

But aye when I sit in the morning seat Comes to my notice the self-same bluff, Plenty of food, but in this they cheat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

Take it at breakfast, only to-day: This was the layout, fresh and sweet: Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;[Footnote: And about as edible.]

Cereal--one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This s.p.a.ce for sale.]

of wheat; Soft--boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat); Coffee (a claro--manila--buff); Napery, china, and gla.s.ses complete-- Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

L'ENVOI

Autocratesses, forgive my heat, But isn't it time to change that stuff?

Small is the benison I entreat-- Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

Ornithology

Unlearned I in ornithology-- All I know about the birds Is a bunch of etymology, Just a lot of high--flown words.

Is the curlew an uxorial Bird? The Latin name for crow?

Is the bulfinch grallatorial?

I dunno.

O'er my head no golden gloriole Ever shall be proudly set For my knowledge of the oriole, Eagle, ibis, or egrette.

I know less about the tanager And its hopes and fears and aims Than a busy Broadway manager Does of James.

But, despite my incapacity On the birdies of the air, I am not without sagacity, Be it ne'er so small a share.

This I know, though ye be scorning at What I know not, though ye mock, Birdies wake me every morning at Four o'clock.

To Alice--Sit--By--The--Hour

Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across the way, One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all the livelong day, Idly looking out your window from your vantage point above.

Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? Are you in love?

Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little window seat, Into flats across the way or down upon the prosy street.

Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, sew, or cook?

Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed or read a book?

Tell me of the fascination you indubitably find In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy--gurdy grind.

Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knight To descend upon your fastness and to save you from your plight?

Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle dame, Does your doing nothing never make you feel the blush of shame?

As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single thing to do, Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy you!

To Alice--Sit--By--The--Hour

(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.)

Lady in the blue kimono, May we write of you again?

Do not hand us out a "No! no!"

Do not dam the flowing pen.

Once again a poem at you Crave we leave of you to write-- Lady idle as a statue, Lady silent as the night!

Lady in the blue kimono, Heavy is our heart and dumb, Though we weep no tear nor show no Sign of sadness, we are glum; For that wrapper, silk or cotton, You eternally had on-- It is gone, but not forgotten.

Still the fact is, it is gone.

Lady in the blue kimono, Although deadly hot the day, Don't you think--(alas! we know no Way to put what we would say!)

Er--although your smile is pleasant, Wondrous fair, and all that stuff-- Do you really think, at present, It is--er--ahem--enough?

Notions

Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about Seems to be any one other than you; Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about Twelve anapestic good verses and true.

Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon, O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest, Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise upon-- You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed.

Also my notion of nowhere to be at all-- Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint-- Notion of mapless location is----d. it all-- Anywhere you simultaneous ain't.

My Ladye's Eyen

Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient theme Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme, And through ye blessed hours of slepe--thilk eyen or browne or blue Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by G.o.ddiswoundes thaie doe!

O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee, And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee, Hir eyen ben soe o'erpa.s.sing bright yt holden mee in thrall, I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all.

To a Lady

Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed Warmer than chill appreciation-- If they should lengthen to an "Ode On Fascination--"

If I should cast this cold restraint, Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing-- If but your portrait I should paint In colours glowing--