This gentleman of leisure’s heart and hand,
Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift
By hope of profit to some deed of thrift. 
Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin,
No tin to mend, no glass to be put in,
No housewife worthy of a morning visit,
Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit? 
Lo! the blind sow’s precarious pursuit
Of the aspiring oak’s familiar fruit!—­
’Twould more advantage any man to steal
This easy victim’s undefended meal
Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so
Expose the state to his narcotic flow!

[Footnote A:  “Pussy Wants a Corner.”]

[Footnote B:  “Simon Says Thumbs Up.”]

THE DEAD KING

Hawaii’s King resigned his breath—­
  Our Legislature guffawed. 
The awful dignity of death
  Not any single rough awed. 
But when our Legislators die
All Kings, Queens, Jacks and Aces cry.

A PATTER SONG

There was a cranky Governor—­
  His name it wasn’t Waterman. 
  For office he was hotter than
The love of any lover, nor
Was Boruck’s threat of aiding him
Effective in dissuading him—­
  This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.

To citrus fairs, et caetera,
  He went about philandering,
  To pride of parish pandering. 
He knew not any better—­ah,
His early education had
Not taught the abnegation fad—­
  The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering!

He conjured up, ad libitum,
  With postures energetical,
  One day (this is prophetical)
His graces, to exhibit ’em. 
He straddled in each attitude,
Four parallels of latitude—­
  The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unaesthetical! 
An ancient cow, perceiving that
  His powers of agility
  Transcended her ability
(A circumstance for grieving at)
Upon her horns engrafted him
And to the welkin wafted him—­
  The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!

A CALLER

“Why, Goldenson, you’re looking very well.” 
 Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
He entered that serene assassin’s cell
  And hung his hat and coat upon a nail. 
“I think that life in this secluded spot
Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?”

“Well, yes,” said Goldenson, “I can’t complain: 
  Life anywhere—­provided it is mine—­
Agrees with me; but I observe with pain
  That still the people murmur and repine. 
It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt,
To see a persecuted man grow stout.”

“O no, ’tis not your growing stout,” said Death,
  “Which makes these malcontents complain and scold—­
They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath. 
  What they object to is your growing old. 
And—­though indifferent to lean or fat—­
I don’t myself entirely favor that.”