Writ a pome about a kid.
Finest one I ever did.
Heaped it full o' sentiment--
Very best I could invent.
Talked about his little toys;
How he played with other boys;
How the beasts an' birdies all
Come when little Jamie'd call.
'N' 'en I took that little lad,
Gave him fever, mighty bad.
'N' 'en it sorter pleased my whim
To have him die and bury him.
It got printed, too, it did
That small pome about the kid,
In a paper in the West;
Put ten dollars in my vest.
Every pa an' ma about
Cried like mighty--cried right out.
I jess took each grandma's heart,
Lammed and bruised it, made it smart;
'N' everybody said o' me,
"Finest pote we ever see,"
'Cept one beggar, he got mad.
Got worst lickin' ever had;
Got my head atween his fists,
Called me "Prince o' anarchists."
Clipped me one behind my ear--
Laid me up for 'most a year.
"'Cause," he said, "my poetry
'D made his wife an' mother cry;
"'Twarn't no poet's bizness to
Make the wimmin all boo-hoo."
'N' 'at is why to-day, by Jings!
I don't fool with hearts an' things.
I don't care how high the bids,
I've stopped scribblin' 'bout dead kids;
'R if I haven't, kinder sorter
Think 'at maybe p'r'aps I'd oughter.
The lines were received with hearty appreciation by all save Dobbs
Ferry, who looked a trifle gloomy.
[Illustration: "IT FILLED ME WITH DISMAY"]
"It is a strange thing," said the latter, "but that mince-pie affected
me in precisely the same way, as you will see for yourselves when I
read my contribution, which, holding ball number four as I do, I will
proceed to give you."
Mr. Ferry then read the following poem, which certainly did seem to
indicate that the man who prepared the fatal pie had certain literary
ideas which he mixed in with other ingredients:
I bought a book of verse the other day,
And when I read, it filled me with dismay.
I wanted it to take home to my wife,
To bring a bit of joy into her life;
And I'd been told the author of those pomes
Was called the laureate of simple homes.
But, Jove! I read, and found it full of rhyme
That kept my eyes a-filling all the time.
One told about a pretty little miss
Whose father had denied a simple kiss,
And as she left, unhappy, full of cares,
She fell and broke her neck upon the stairs.
And then he wrote a lot of tearful lines
Of children who had trouble with their spines;
And 'stead of joys, he penned so many woes
I sought him out and gave him curvature 'f the nose;
And all the nation, witnessing his plight,
Did crown me King, and cry, "It served him right."
"A remarkable coincidence," said Thomas Snobbe. "In fact, the
coincidence is rather more remarkable than the poetry."
"It certainly is," said Billie Jones; "but what a wonderfully suggestive
pie, considering that it was a mince!"
After which dictum the presiding officer called upon the holder of the
fifth ball, who turned out to be none other than Bedford Parke, who
blushingly rose up and delivered himself of what he called "The
Overcoat, a Magazine Farce."