Impertinent Poems Part 3

[Ill.u.s.tration: Why do You?

_Page 30._]

And if we eat the crusty wheat With appet.i.te, it needs no sweet, Still I have noticed you were not at all inclined to cry Because the man the bees had blest was bothered with the fly.

Whenever the chef concocts a dish which sets the world to tasting, Why does the cooking-school get out its recipes for basting?

Whenever a sprinter beats the bunch from the pistol-shot, why is it The heavy hammer throwers get together for a visit?

Excuse me!

Did you accuse me Of turning the spit a little bit myself? Why, you amuse me!

Didn't I scratch the sulphurous match And blow the flame to make it catch?

Didn't you trot to get the pot To heat the water good and hot?

Then, seizing on our victim, if we found no greater sin, Didn't we call him "a lobster," and cheerfully chuck him in?

THE VISION.

At the door of Success, I've been tempted to knock Both the door and the man who went through it, But I find that the fellow was greasing the lock All the time that he strove to undo it, So I either stay out, or must look for the key Which slipped back the bolt which impeded, And I'm certain to find it, as soon as I see The reason my rival succeeded.

Yes, I own when the man is a rank also-ran That I feel quite pish-tushy and pooh-y, And exclaim if he ever knew saw-dust from bran, Well--I come from just west of St. Louis!

But then, in the winning he's made, there's a hope That I may do even as he did, So I swallow my sneer and I study his dope To discover just why he succeeded.

I've been up in the air, I've been down in the hole, (But always, let's hope, on the level,) And I've been on my uppers--so meagre my sole 'Twould scarcely have tempted the devil!

But it's nothing to you what I am, or I was, And no whit of your sympathy's needed, For I'm certain to win in the long run, because I shall see how my rival succeeded.

BLOOD IS RED.

Some of us don't drink, some of us do; Some of us use a word or two.

Most of us, maybe, are half-way ripe For deeds that would't look well in type.

All of us have done things, no doubt, We don't very often brag about.

We are timidly good, we are badly bold, But there's hope for the worst of us, I hold, If there be a few things we didn't do, For the reason that we so wanted to.

Some of us sin on a smaller scale.

(We don't mind minnows, we shy at a whale.) We speak of a woman with half a sneer, We sit on our hands when we ought to cheer.

The salad we mix in the bowl of the heart We sometimes make a little too tart For home consumption. We growl, we nag, But we're not quite lost if we sometimes drag The hot words back and make them mild At the moment they fret to be running wild.

Don't pin your faith on the man or woman Who never is tempted. We're mostly human.

And whoever he be who never has felt The red blood sing in the veins and melt The ice of convention, caste and creed, To the very last barrier, has no need To raise his brows at the rest of us.

It bides its time in the best of us, And well for him if he do not do That which the strength of him wants him to.

DIAGNOSIS.

You have a grudge against the man Who did the thing you couldn't do.

You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan, And yet you couldn't push it through.

You strained your soul and couldn't win; He gave a breath and it was easy.

You smile and swallow your chagrin, But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy.

I know your illness, for, you see, The diet never pleases me.

Your dearest friend has made a strike, Has placed his mark above the crowd, Has won the thing which _you_ would like And you are glad for him, and proud.

Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red, If some one speak to his detraction, And yet, the fact the thing is said Affords you half a satisfaction.

I see the workings of your mind Because my own is so inclined.

You tell me fame is hollow squeak, You say that wealth is carking care; And to live care-free a single week Is more than years of work and wear.

Alexander weeps his highest place, Diogenes is happy sunning!

What matters it who wins the race So you have had the joy of running?

And yet, you covet prize and pelf.

I know it, for I do, myself.

SPREAD OUT.

In politics I'm a--never mind, And you are a--I don't care, But, anyway, I am rather inclined To suspect we are both unfair; For I have called you a coward and slave And you have dubbed me a fool and knave.

(Yet, perhaps I was right, for you surely abused The right of free speech in the names you used!)

In business you figure--a profit, I guess, And I charge you--as much as I dare, And I grumble that you ought to do it for less, And you ask if my price is fair.

But if _I_ sold your goods and _you_ sold mine, I doubt if the prices would much decline.

(Though I must insist that I think I see Where you'd still have a little advantage of me!)

In religion you are a--who cares what?

And I am a--what's the odds?

So why have I sneered at your holiest thought, And why have you jeered at my G.o.ds?

For, thinking it over, I'm sure we two Were doing the best that we honestly knew.

(Though, of course, I cannot escape a touch Of suspicion that _you_ never knew too much!)

THE DILETTANT.