Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 14

Hark to the honk of the horn!

Cut out that throwing confetti!

There! My new overcoat's torn-- Looks like a shred of spaghetti.

Cut out that throwing confetti!

Look at the gentleman, stewed; Looks like a shred of spaghetti-- Don't get so terribly rude!

Look at the gentleman, stewed!

Look at the glare of the rocket!

Don't get so terribly rude, Keep your hand out of my pocket!

Look at the glare of the rocket!

Take that thing out of my face!

Keep your hand out of my pocket!

This is a shame and disgrace.

Take that thing out of my face!

Curse you! Be decent to ladies!

This is a shame and disgrace, Worse than traditions of Hades.

Curse you! Be decent to ladies!

(Heavens! that woman is loud.) Worse than traditions of Hades Gaze at the "good-natured" crowd!

I Cannot Pay That Premium

Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean and white, A loving couple they did sit and all seemed pleasant, quite; They did not have no servant the things away to take, For he was but a broker who much money did not make.

(Key changes to minor.)

He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife did say: "Your life insurance it will lapse if it you do not pay."

He turned from her in sorrow, for breaking was his heart, And in a mezzo barytone to her did say, in part:

CHORUS:

"I cannot pay that premium, I'll have to let it go; It fills me with remorse and sorrow, not to mention woe.

Though I'm quite strong and healthy, and will outlive you, perhaps, I cannot pay that premium; I'll have to let it lapse."

The wife she naught did answer, for it cut her to the quick; She washed the dishes, filled the lamp, and likewise trimmed the wick; She took in washing the next day and played bridge whist all night, Until she had enough to pay her husband's premium, quite.

(Key changes to minor)

The husband he was thrown next day from his au-to-mo-bile, And although rather lonesome it did make his widow feel, It made her glad to know that she had paid that prem-i-um, And oftentimes in after years these words she'd softly hum:

CHORUS:

"I cannot pay that premium," etc.

Three Authors

Prolific authors, n.o.ble three, I do my derby off to ye.

_Selected_, dear old chap, who knows The quant.i.ty of verse and prose That you have signed in all these years!

You've dulled how many thousand shears!

You've filled, at a tremendous rate, A million miles of "boiler plate"-- A wreath of laurel for your brow!

A stirrup-cup to you--here's how!

And you, dear _Ibid_. Ah, you wrote Too many things for me to quote, Though Bartlett, of quotation fame, Plays up your unpoetic name More than he did to Avon's bard.

Your stuff's on every page, old pard.

Bouquets to you the writer flings; You wrote a lot of dandy things.

And you, O last, O greatest one, A word with you, and I have done Your, dear _Exchange_, that ever floats Around with verses, anecdotes, And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign (Quite frequently a thing of mine).

Why, it would not be very strange If I should see this signed--_Exchange_.

O favourite authors, wondrous three, I do my derby off to ye!

To Quotation

(Caused by "The Ethics of Misquotation" in the November _Atlantic Monthly_.)

Quotation! Brother to the Arts, a.s.sister to the Muse!

When Bartlett from his study height unfurled thine heaven-born hues, The quotes were here, the quotes were there, the quotes were all around, For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the heels of sound.

Pernicious habit! One becomes a worse than senseless block, A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer care to knock; A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and curious lore, An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing more.

Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle rain from heaven, Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the stars on thy head are seven.

Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly, he who runs may read, But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves me poor indeed.

I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest in peace-- From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy Isles of Greece.

Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy sans let or end With me abide, O handy guide, philosopher, and friend.

Melodrama

R

If you want a receipt for a melodramatical, Thrillingly thundery, popular show, Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical, Driving his daughter out into the snow; The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty; Hate of a villain in evening clothes; Comic relief that is Irish and racketty; Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths; The bank and the safe and the will and the forgery-- All of them built on traditional norms-- Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery Helping the villain until she reforms; The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery; Violin music, all scary and shivery; Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious; Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious; Bingo!--the rescue!--the movement goes snappily-- Exit the villain and all endeth happily!