A PATTER SONGThere was a cranky Governor—His name it wasn't Waterman.For office he was hotter thanThe love of any lover, norWas Boruck's threat of aiding himEffective in dissuading him—This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.To citrus fairs,et cftera,He went about philandering,To pride of parish pandering.He knew not any better—ah,His early education hadNot 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 unfsthetical!An ancient cow, perceiving thatHis powers of agilityTranscended her ability(A circumstance for grieving at)Upon her horns engrafted himAnd 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 cellAnd hung his hat and coat upon a nail."I think that life in this secluded spotAgrees 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 painThat 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 favorthat."With brows that met above the orbs beneath,And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared,And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth,The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered:"O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuageYour spongy passion for the blood of age?"Death with a clattering convulsion, drewHis coat on, hatted his unmeated pow,Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through,Turned and made answer: "I willshowyou how.I'm going to the Bench you call SupremeAnd tap the old women who sit there and dream."
There was a cranky Governor—His name it wasn't Waterman.For office he was hotter thanThe love of any lover, norWas Boruck's threat of aiding himEffective in dissuading him—This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.To citrus fairs,et cftera,He went about philandering,To pride of parish pandering.He knew not any better—ah,His early education hadNot 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 unfsthetical!An ancient cow, perceiving thatHis powers of agilityTranscended her ability(A circumstance for grieving at)Upon her horns engrafted himAnd 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 cellAnd hung his hat and coat upon a nail."I think that life in this secluded spotAgrees 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 painThat 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 favorthat."With brows that met above the orbs beneath,And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared,And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth,The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered:"O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuageYour spongy passion for the blood of age?"Death with a clattering convulsion, drewHis coat on, hatted his unmeated pow,Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through,Turned and made answer: "I willshowyou how.I'm going to the Bench you call SupremeAnd tap the old women who sit there and dream."