Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 8

Say, ere I bind my fetters.

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech, Ever let fall "those kind"?

Art thou to nutmeg in a pie Unalterably inclined?

If aught of these, maid of my wooing, there's absolutely nothing doing.

To Myrtilla Complaining

Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected you, Pa.s.sed you, forgotten you, let you alone.

Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected you Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone.

Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to you Only on days when I've nothing to do, Otherwise I have no time to attend to you, Others, you say, are more weighty than you.

Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for you, Yes, and you say that I hold you but light, Only when pressed do I reel off a rhyme for you

Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right.

Christmas Cards

I

TO THE GROCERY BOY

Before you send me up that card With rime and diction far from subtle, Hear what a now rebellious bard Says in a quasi-pre-reb.u.t.tal.

"A nickel in a poor boy's hat!"

You, minion of a grubbing grocer, You dare, indeed, to ask me that?

Bold and relentless, say I, "No, sir!"

You who bring some one else's tea To us, while ours goes to the neighbours, And yet you dare demand from me Reward for inefficient labours!

You who but lately made me hit My head upon the dum-dum waiter-- From me you get no silver bit.

Fie, out upon you, youthful traitor!

Hard is my heart and tight my purse; Deaf is my ear to all your suing.

Except this little bit of verse, There's absolutely nothing doing.

II

TO THE JANITOR

Sullen, surly Scandinave, Smoking on a pipe, Valiantly I cast the glave At thee and thy type.

Person of the shakeless grouch Tamperer with the cream, Idler, lounger, sloven, slouch Despot of the steam--

Thou who bangest garbage cans In the hollow court, Thou whose children spin tin pans Deeming it is sport--

Tyrant of the tenement, Take thy card and flee!

Not a nickel, not a cent Dost thou get from me.

III

TO THE WAITER

O waiter, will you tell me why You think to get at Christmas time A five-case note, for do not I Slip you each day a dime?

When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus [Footnote: Well, how do you p.r.o.nounce it, then?]

And beg that you will bring them rare, They are well done. I fume and fuss And yet you do not care.

Haply I order apple pie, But NOT your counsel or advice; You rub your hands and tell me: "Why, The mince is very nice."

You hide my hat, you hide my coat.

Let others, if they care to, give, But as to this here gentle pote-- Be glad he lets you live.

IV

TO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELEPHONE GIRL

Proud, imperious female person That presideth o'er my 'phone, Hearken while I do some verse on Thee, and thee alone.

Puffed and pompadoured and ratted, Reading _Munsey's_ all the day, Pony-coated, otter-hatted-- Listen to my lay:

When I beg in desperation, "Eight O Seven Riverside,"

Why do I get "Information"?

Is it justified?

Why--I ask it with insistence-- Why--prepare to be appalled-- Why "$2.85 Long Distance"

That I never called?

When I call thee, "They don't answer"

Tells me Central. (Oh, the crime!) Then thou sayest, thou Romancer, "Been here all the time!"

Tyrant trim and telephonic, Christmas offerings to thee?

Pardon if I seem laconic: Not a single c.