Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 9

V

TO THE BARBER

Prince of the parlour tonsorial, Knight of the razor and shears, Who have from time immemorial Snipped it too short round the ears--

You with your long academical Causes for "thinning on top,"

Selling me gallons of chemical Tonic, a brush, and a strop;

You with your sad comicality, You with your b.u.m badinage-- Confound your congeniality!

Confound your "Facial Ma.s.sage?"

Still, though you shave contragrainious,[Footnote: Well, there ought to be.]

Healing the cut with a lime, Don't I, quite nice and spontaneous, Daily contribute a dime?

Mountain of foreign servility, Butcher of chin and of lip.

Maugre your marked inability, Do I not fall for the tip?

Hope you at Christmas for currency, Fiend of tonsorial tricks?

Never was greater aberrancy-- Coa.r.s.ely I say to you, "Nix!"

VI

TO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOR-BOY

Lo, the West Indian! whose untutored mind To Christmas giving makes me disinclined, Who tellest callers I have moved away And mixest up the morning mail each day.

When for thine elevator car I ring Thou telephonest or some other thing; While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four, Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor-- I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy, But not a cent, O Elevator Boy!

Ballade of a Hardy Annual

Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appear; Deathless it hits us again in the eye-- Changeless and dull as the calendar year.

Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere, Stronger, withal, than the st.u.r.diest oak; Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly, All through the day of the "leathery sphere,"

Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy All on the theme of the grandmother dear.

Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer Please us and tickle us quite to the choke.

But--on this matter our att.i.tude's clear-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Giggle we can at a blueberry pie; Scream at a comedy king or ameer; Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer.

Things that in others elicit a tear All of our risibles simply unyoke; But from this stand we're unwilling to veer: Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

L'ENVOI

Brothers in motley, the season is here; Small is the boon that we sadly invoke: Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear!-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

A Plea

Writers of baseball, attention!

When you're again on the job-- When, in your rage for invention, You with the language play hob-- Most of your dope we will pardon, Though of the moth ball it smack; But--cut out the "sinister garden,"

Chop the "initial sack."

Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus"

For phrases fantastic and queer; And though on occasions you bore us, We will refrain from a sneer.

We will endeavour to harden Ourselves to the rest of your clack, If you'll cut out the "sinister garden"

And chop the "initial sack."

Singers of words that are scrambled, Say, if you will, that he "died,"

Write, if you must, that he "ambled"-- We shall be last to deride.

But us to the Forest of Arden, Along with the misanthrope Jaques, If you cling to the "sinister garden"

And stick to "initial sack."

Speak of the "sphere's aberration,"

Mention the "leathery globe,"

Say he got "free transportation"-- Though that try the patience of Job.

But if you're wise you'll discard en- c.u.mbrances such as we thwack-- Especially "sinister garden"

And the "initial sack."

Footlight Motifs

I

MRS. FISKE

Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk, Cascading, intermittent, choppy, The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske Shall serve me now as copy.

a.s.sist me, O my Muse, what time I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme!

Time was, when first that voice I heard, Despite my close and tense endeavour, When many an important word Was lost and gone forever; Though, unlike others at the play, I never whispered: "wha'd'd she say?"

Some words she runstogetherso; Some others are distinctly stated; Some cometoofast and s o m e t o o s l o w And some are syncopated.

And yet no voice--I am sincere-- Exists that I prefer to hear.

For what is called "intelligence"

By every Mrs. Fiskeian critic As usual is just a sense Of humour, a.n.a.lytic.