MORE RHYME THAN REASON

Lickety-klang! Lickety-klang! Boom-a-lang! Boom-a-lang! Boom! Swishity-swish! Kettle and dish! Out of the kitchen and room! Room! Room! Steam up the water hotter and hotter, Tin an’ enamel-ware, linen an’ camel-hair Into the boiler and tubs, tubs, tubs! Erin’s fair daughter, prime for the slaughter, Tumbled and tawny-like, hefty and brawny-like, Promptly at seven and rubs, rubs, rubs! Mouth like a grotto! No hippopotto Rushes his ration so, shuns mastication so— No hippopotto would dare, dare, dare! Coffee and tater—into the crater, Front of stalactites, molars for back-bites Crunching away with a tear, tear, tear! Blazes are dwindling, shove in the kindling, All the pajamas on—see how the Amazon Mixes the pudding of duds, duds, duds! Skirts and chemises, shirts, B. V. D-ses, Stir them around again—unwound and wound again, Swirled in a vortex of suds, suds, suds! Rinse ’em and ring ’em, twist ’em and sling ’em Out of the stewing-place into the bluing-place, Whiter and whiter they grow, grow, grow! One more ablution—careful, that ruchin’! Purged all the finery, pinned on the linery, Swinging away there like snow, snow, snow! Wash-lady Bridget’s weary old digits— Would she complain of it? Fume at the strain! of it? Not if she dropped in the way, way, way! Now ends the tubbing—home to more grubbing, Back to that man of hers and that wee clan of hers, Back at the end of the day, day, day! Shirts and chemises caught by the breezes, Fluttering nigh to her, waving good-bye to her, Gorgeous and gold in the sun, sun, sun! Aprons of gingham—how she did ring ’em, Sheets blowing billowy, hose limp and willowy, Praise be to Bridget—they’re done, done, done! Lickety-klang! Lickety-klang! Boom-a-lang! Boom-a-lang! Boom! Swishity-swish! Kettle and dish! Out of the kitchen and room! Room! Room!

When Jim gets to it he’s goin’ to fix The front door where it always sticks, And oil the hinges where they squeak And put new shingles on the leak That trickled down and ruined all The paper on the spare-room wall. He’s goin’ to take a piece of lead And mend the drain-pipe, so he said, By solderin’ up that pesky chink Down underneath the kitchen sink; And nail the loose boards on the floors And patch up all the fly-screen doors. When Jim gets to it he’s goin’ to clean The wood-shed like you’ve never seen, And hang the hoes and rakes on racks, And shake out all the gunny-sacks, And all the empty cans and truck And old gum-boots he’s goin’ to chuck, And leave a place big enough For all the mops and brooms and stuff. And oh the wood he’s goin’ to chop! When Jim gets to it there’ll be a crop Of kindlin’ that will see you through At least a dozen years or two. When Jim gets to it he’s goin’ to take And fix his teeth so they won’t ache, Especially some molars there That’s just got wrecked through wear and tear— Their nerves had ought to first be killed And ’bout a dozen others filled. He’s goin’ to have some X-ray man Examine him if he can Find why he’s been so plagued of late Along his spinal vertebrate. He’s goin’ to take and drown I guess ’Bout ninety kittens more or less, That make a point of hangin’ round The kitchen door and gettin’ wound Up in your feet so that you squash A kitten with each step, by Gosh! There’s lots of things that Jim declares Each day will want some new repairs; The barnyard gate is far from straight And saggin’ pretty low of late; The buck-saws will need filin’ soon The new piano’s out of tune, The wagon-reach is split and may Capsize a cargo any day. It seems like quite a lot to do, But I suppose he’ll see it through When nothin’ else is crowdin’ him Nor pressin’ on his mind, and Jim Is feelin’ fairly fit and prime— But when it comes to that there time I guess it’s not too much to say That Jim will have one busy day.

Our kitchen’s full of flies an’ things, A billion very near, And though they’re tantalizin’ things, At times they’re tantalizin’ things, They give it atmosphere. A kitchen is more kitchy when The flies are everywhere, And work goes on less hitchy when, A hundred times less hitchy when There’s music in the air. When chilly their stupidity Is really quite a deal, They like the mild humidity, They much prefer humidity, It helps them uncongeal.

It’s then they totter ’round a bit And gradually relax, Their wings begin to sound a bit, To sizz and sing and sound a bit Abaft their beady backs. Anon the whole community Is pulsing through the void, Each purrs his little tunity His titillating tunity With pleasure unalloyed. Some for the unwashed dishes steer, They joy to congregate Where fragmentary fishes smear. Where frequent flecks of fishes smear The surface of a plate.

And how they love to wallow in A bowl of batter, oh How they do love to swallow in, To sip and sup and swallow in Those drippy dabs of dough. They’re happy and go-lucky and They’re irresponsible, They’ve predilections mucky and, Most mushy-mush and mucky and They gorge until they’re full. Betimes they gallivanting go To forage where they may, With buzzy minors chanting low, With chirpy chirrups chanting low, They drone a roundelay.

When one is very fortunate He summons with his hums, With thrumming most importunate, Impatiently importunate, His gummy little chums. But when they’ve slaked their appetites They pause a while because The stuffed and wheezy happy mites, The puffed and greasy happy mites Desire to dry their paws. They rub their front ones violently, They rub them to the tips, They rub them very silently, They slip and slide them silently Until they’re dry as chips.

In manner quite identical, They manicure with stress Each tiny, hinder tentacle, Each sticky, tickly tentacle That’s draggled through the mess. They’re fond of domesticity And always striving to Facilitate felicity, A frolicsome felicity, As all good flies should do. Their games are often nautical, They dearly love to plunge In milk-bowl depths aquatical, In quivery depths aquatical With lacteal lurch and lunge.

But when the cream is thick enough They dance along the top, Their dancing must be quick enough, Alert and spick and quick enough, Forestalling any stop; In which eventuality Their limbs are soon involved In struggling with mortality, With miry, moist mortality Until they’re quite dissolved. And thus a woeful paucity Of wits within their pates, May, with their curiosity, Their curbless curiosity, Precipitate dire straits.

For instance they’ll go hovering With lack-wit dawdling drone, And near without discovering, Detecting or discovering A lurking danger zone. Their kinsmen multifarious Are strewn upon a sheet In poses strange and various, Vituperative, various, With upturned toes and feet. They read in big, black typing there “USE TANGLE-FOOT FOR FLIES,” They see their comrades griping there, Grimacing, gripping, griping there, And yet they don’t get wise.

And they that were so cheerupy, Who flew the air so free, Now on that surface syrupy, So sinister and syrupy, Bemoan their misery. They kick with motions panicky Until they’ve quite unlatched Their divers parts organicky, Orchestral and organicky, With feet and legs detached. Until most penitentially With slow surcease of toils, Their souls float out eventually, Evacuate eventually, Their mangled mortal coils.

And so I’ve tried to tune a verse Or so, to eulogize Our kitchen’s little universe, Unique, unnumbered universe Of busy, buzzy flies. With measures lilting, lyrical I’ve striven to describe In ballad panegyrical— In part it’s panegyrical, This much despiséd tribe. And if I’ve touched the heart of you, Oh promise me you’ll try To crush that naughty party of you, That pugilistic part of you And NEVER swat a fly.

Now Cloud Cap’s near to Cooper Spur Hard by the timber-line, Above it looms the mountain and Below it blooms the pine. It’s reared of logs and sits bang up Right pert upon a crag, And through the roof a chimney’s built Of hacked volcanic slag. We gathered ’round the fireplace there— The guide, the guests and me, The Junior from New Haven and The man from Tennessee. We’d had a rousing dinner of Spaghetti and roast-lamb, Substantially supported by A chowder made of clam. We talked about the morrow and The perils of the hike, About the snowy crater there And what it all was like. We got along to bergschrunds and Erosion and seracs, And that kind of queer explosion when A nervous serac cracks. We figured out how long ’twould take (We all submitted plans) To parcel-post a glacier’s ice By shipping it in cans. We talked of starry nebulæ, Auroras, comets’ tails, Toads found alive in sandstone rock And ice-imprisoned whales; Suspended animation and The tribe of Dinosaurs, (Just here the man from Tennessee Passed ’round some good cigars); We stated and we countered in A wordy-wise delirium About the reptile Dinosaur And mammal Dinotherium. In short we talked of everything That people talk about When sparring for a last word more To help the conflab out. We sprawled a bit, we yawned and stretched, We lumberingly arose And brought a most loquacious night Abruptly to a close. A dozen moments afterwards, A dozen drowsy heads Had hit a dozen pillows on A dozen downy beds. For prostrate with their hikings were A dozen pair of shanks As they slept the sleep of Vikings ’neath The wood-rat riddled planks. The old Inn shook and trembled with A rat-a-tat-a-tat, As all the blustering four winds blew Like Great Jehoshaphat— Like Blazes blew and Blitzen, banged The window-sash till sud- denly the thing just opened with One gosh-almighty thud. Then quickly—as if conscious of Such ill-timed, boorish riot, Those shrieking, spiteful, frightful winds Became most meek and quiet; And in the lull there rolled a dull, Strange gurgle in my ear And through the window-space I saw A monstrous thing appear— A snow-white critter, giant-high, With trunk and pussy’s paws— In short his make-up seemed exempt From all of Nature’s laws. A husky, tusky Titan growth With squidgy, squinty eyes— I drew the covers closer up— The creature said “Arise!” “Not so, old Scout,” I squiddled out, “Bed’s good enough for me!” His trunk moved slowly toward my bunk, The monster said “We’ll see!” “Then who are you and what’s your game?” (I tried to be as calm as A man can be while shivering In only silk pajamas.) “To thus intrude your presence rude, You big Albino cur!” “What’s that!” said he, “You don’t know me— I am a Dino, Sir!” “A Dinosaur? The heck you are! From your get-up I’ll swan You’re what our scientific sharks Have dubbed a Mastodon! A rare, old wooly specimen ’Mongst fossil Pachyderms!” “For what they claim I’m not to blame, I have no knack at terms; “I only know I say what’s so, A Dino’s what I be— Because your experts get things wrong— That doesn’t bother me. “I am a Dino—or to be A little more exact, I am a Dino’s aura, Sir! A Dino’s ghost in fact! “I overheard your talk tonight About our ancient clan— I grew absorbed, I got a hunch, Thinks I ‘At last—my man!’ “You spoke of ice-imprisoned whales— Oh little did you know The way that touched my heart that pulsed A million years ago— “My other heart that lies so still Within my frozen fur— My other heart upon the hill Deep in yon glacier. “Oh could I break that crystal mold Where I’ve been doomed to freeze Down in that gloom and bitter cold For untold centuries, “I’m sure my heart would pulse again, Those haunches limber grow, And I could roam as once I did— Once in the Long-ago! “There is an ice-cave known to none, Leads to that Mausoleum, And he that was that other me Rests there where you shall see him. “So come and look—perhaps you could Evolve some keen device To extricate my stiffened shanks From out that flux of ice, “And I will bear you back, I swear, As I’m a Dino’s spirit, To this here shack before the crack Of daylight—never fear it!” “But Brother—” here you will observe How friendly we’d become, “For me to go up there tonight With You—is going Some! “And such a task! What could I do? ’Twould weigh so mighty on My mortal shoulders—and besides I’ve but my nightie on!” “Why don’t you see” replied the wraith, “What faith I’ve got in you— Who’d parcel-post a glacier’s ice In cans—what can’t you do? “Some high explosive you could get Like dynamite and blow Me out from all my frigid plight— It could be done, I know.” “It could be done,” I said, “but then The risk you run is heightened— The dyna-MITE blow bones and all— And then again it mightn’t!” I looked to see—perhaps the pun Had punched his ponderous thinker— His countenance was passive quite, He never winked a blinker. But then his wraithy nut, I ween, Was shadow-celled—not solid, Hence this hiatus in his bean, His manner grave and stolid. “This dynamiting Dinos is Quite risky in the main— Although you haven’t much to lose And quite a bit to gain!” “I’ll chance it—come!” the Dino said, “There’s little time to lose— We ghosts you know, can only romp While other people snooze.” His trunk galumpled toward my bunk, It snoodled till it found me, Then with a firm but gentle squeeze It wrapped itself around me; It lifted me into the air Out toward the window-sash— The lamp upon the table there Fell with a telltale crash, Which roused my next-door neighbor up, The man from Tennessee, Who with his light came rushing in To learn what it could be. Of course no wraith can stand the light— It must have made him sore To have his trunk dissolve in night While I sprawled on the floor. As for the man from Tennessee And what had just occurred— With me in my pajamas there, I told him not a word. I told him nothing for I knew He’d never understand— I asked him just to get a rag And wrap my bruiséd hand.

We have a cat of common gray— In fact a plain and everyday Old Tab—to be exact I’d say She’s common in most every way. She’s common in her manners quite, She’s never known the word “polite,” When dining with her neighbors, might To her cat mind is always right. She’s common in her diet too— Cheese, liver, milk, or cold beef-stew— And when at last she finds she’s through, She licks her chops as most cats do. She’s common for the reason that No chipmunk, gopher, mouse or rat Is sure she won’t cave in his slat To decorate our kitchen-mat. She’s common in the way she’ll toy With life—decoy and then annoy And torture with cool, fiendish joy The thing she would at last destroy. She’s common in the motherly Devotion with which she can see Her kits lick up the blood—to be Eventually as cruel as she. She’s common in the attitude Which she’s persistently pursued Toward rearing up a meowing brood— Twice every year the stunt’s renewed. She’s common in the view she’d share With all those poor folks who declare That the community should care For all the young they choose to bear. Indeed so common is she here, That should we count each little dear That’s littered every fiscal year, (Her seventh winter’s drawing near), Allowing six to every score, (At times it’s less but mostly more), The tally would not figure lower Than somewhere say—near eighty-four. But as four out of every six Are ferried ’cross the River Styx And swiftly rendered good for nix Before they register their kicks, And whereas those that still remain In order to relieve the strain And thus assuage a mother’s pain Until her grief is on the wane, Are likewise held beneath the spout, Or soon or later parcelled out To someone who beyond a doubt Enjoys the feel of cats about, It will be fitting to observe That we have done our best to serve This purring matron through each curve Of her plain, boundless, common nerve. We’ve done our best—as one may see, To quell each base antipathy, That she—our Tab might still be free To rear her endless progeny.

Look out! Don’t touch me, man, I’m sore! I’m ulcerous—I’m more, I boil, I fume, I sizzle, I’m Cantankerous to the core. A blister that is being shaved, A wild cat up a tree. A chestnut-bur with every spur An exposed nerve—that’s me! I am the heat that turns to flame When in Fate’s glass is caught The world’s choice store of toughest luck And focused on one spot. What’s wrong? Why, eighty dozen things, Each one of which would stall An ORDINARY man—it’s just My rotten day, that’s all! What’s that? Cheer up? Say that again! No, don’t—just—go away! I’ve never killed a man before— I mustn’t start today.