Poems for Pale People Part 3

When the red-hot July sun began to wink the clouds away, We were out with whoops and shoutings to celebrate the day.

With piece of punk in one hand and crackers in the other, We would troop home later in the day for linseed oil and mother.

But our burns Were small concerns.

Our hearts were light, Injuries slight.

Not even a sigh On the Fourth of July.

And as you lie and ponder, the thought comes home to you That your youngest boy now celebrates the way you used to do; And the mother that he bawls for to have those small wounds dressed Is the woman whom long years ago you swore you loved the best.

But what funny things Memory brings.

Who would have thought That I would be caught With a tear in my eye On the Fourth of July.

KEEP TRYIN'.

When you're feelin' blue as ink An' your spirits 'gin to sink, Don't be weak an' take a drink But Keep Tryin'.

There are times when all of us Get riled up and start a muss, But there ain't no use to cuss, Just Keep Tryin'.

When things seem to go awry, And the sun deserts your sky, Don't sit down somewhere and cry, But Keep Tryin'.

Everybody honors grit, Men who never whine a bit-- Men who tell the world, "I'm IT"

And Keep Tryin'.

Get a hustle on you NOW, Make a great, big solemn vow That you'll win out anyhow, And Keep Tryin'.

All the world's a battlefield Where the true man is revealed, But the ones who never yield Keep Tryin'.

GENIUS.

There was once a young man quite erratic Who lived all alone in an attic, He wrote magazine verse That made editors curse, But his friends thought it fine and dramatic.

TALE OF THREE CITIES.

A seedy young man in Savanah Fell in love with a rich girl named Anna, But her papa got mad And swore that "By Gad, The fellow shall never Havana!"

But the couple eloped to Caracas, Where the Germans kicked up such a fracas; And he said to his wife, "You can bet your sweet life That papa dear never will track us."

MODERN MAUD MULLER.

Maud Muller on a summer's day, Raked the meadows, sweet with hay.

Nor was this just a grand-stand play; Maud got a rake-off, so they say.

NOCTURNE.

A cat duet.

A silhouette.

A high brick wall, An awful squall.

A moonlit night, A mortal fight.

A man in bed, Sticks out his head.

Gee Whiz!

The man has riz.

His arm draws back A big bootjack-- A loud swish, Squish!

"What's that?"

A dead cat.

THE SISSY BOY.

Beware the Sissy Boy my child, Not because he's very wild; The Sissy Boy is never that, Although he'll run if you say "Scat!"

The Sissy Boy's infinitesimal, He is not worth a duodecimal.

If you should take a custard pie And hit a Sissy in the eye, He would not go before a jury, He'd only blush and say "Oh Fury!"

For he is perfumed, sweet and mild, That's just his kind, my dearest child.

One should never strike a Sissy, He is too lady-like and prissy.

You do not need to use your fist But merely slap him on the wrist, And if this will not make him budge, Then glare at him and say "Oh Fudge!"

The Sissy sports a pink cravat And often wears a high silk hat; His voice is like a turtle dove's And he always wears the "cutest" gloves.

At playing ping-pong he's inured, And his finger-nails are manicured.

He uses powder on his face And his handkerchiefs are trimmed with lace; He loves to play progressive euchre And spend his papa's hard-earned lucre.

He wears an air of nonchalance And always takes in every dance.

Socially, he's quite a pet And always fashionably in debt.

He hates to be considered slow And poses as a famous beau.

He loves to cut a swath and dash When papa dear puts up the cash.