Poet’s Corner

The moonlight falls the softest, In Kentucky; The summer days come oftest, In Kentucky; Friendship is the strongest, Love’s light glows the longest, Yet, wrong is always wrongest, In Kentucky. Life’s burdens bear the lightest, In Kentucky; The home fires burn the brightest, In Kentucky; While players are the keenest, Cards come out the meanest, The pocket empties cleanest, In Kentucky. The sun shines ever brightest, In Kentucky; The breezes whisper lightest, In Kentucky; Plain girls are the fewest, Their little hearts are truest, Maiden’s eyes the bluest, In Kentucky. Orators are the grandest, In Kentucky; Officials are the blandest, In Kentucky; Boys are all the fliest, Danger ever nighest, Taxes are the highest, In Kentucky. The bluegrass waves the bluest, In Kentucky; Yet, bluebloods are the fewest (?), In Kentucky; Moonshine is the clearest, By no means the dearest, And, yet, it acts the queerest, In Kentucky. The dove-notes are the saddest, In Kentucky; The streams dance on the gladdest, In Kentucky; Hip pockets are the thickest, Pistol hands the slickest, The cylinder turns quickest, In Kentucky. The song birds are the sweetest, In Kentucky; The thoroughbreds are fleetest, In Kentucky; Mountains tower proudest, Thunder peals the loudest, The landscape is the grandest, And politics—the damnedest, In Kentucky.

The fork said the corkscrew was crooked; The remark made the flatiron sad; The steel knife at once lost its temper, And called the tea-holder a cad. The teaspoon stood on its metal; The kettle exhibited bile; The stove grew hot at the discussion, But the ice remained cool all the while. The way that the cabbage and lettuce Kept their heads was something sublime; The greens dared the soup to mix with them, And the latter, while it hadn’t much thyme, Got so mad it boiled over—the fire Felt put out and started to cry; The oven then roasted the turkey And the cook gave the grease spot the lye. The plate said the clock in the corner Transacted its business on tick. And the plate, which for years had been battered, The clock said was full of old nick. The salt said the cream should be whipped, The cinnamon laughed—in a rage The cream said the salt was too fresh, And its friend wasn’t thought to be sage. You’d not think a thing that’s so holey As the sieve would have mixed in the fuss, But it did, for it said that the butter Was a slippery sort of a cuss; No one knows how the row would have ended, Had not the cook, Maggie O’Dowd, (Her work being done) closed the kitchen, And thusly shut up the whole crowd.

It was midnight on the ocean Not a street car was in sight The sun was shining brightly And it rained all day that night. It was a summer day in winter The rain was snowing fast A barefoot girl with shoes on Stood sitting on the grass. It was evening and the rising sun Was setting in the west The little fishes in the trees Were cuddled in their nests. The rain was pouring down The moon was shining bright And everything that you could see Was hidden from your sight. While the organ peeled potatoes Lard was rendered by the choir While the sexton rang the dish rag Some one set the church on fire. “Holy Smokes” the preacher shouted In the rain he lost his hair Now his head resembles heaven For there is no parting there.

This is the story of Johnny McGuire, Who ran through the town with his trousers on fire; He went to the doctor’s and fainted with fright When the doctor told him his end was in sight.

I often sit and medit8 Upon the scurvy trick of f8 That keeps me still a celib8. I want a 10der maid sed8 To love and be my m8. My 40-2de is not so gr8 I cannot w8.

My Auto ’tis of Thee Short cut to poverty Of Thee I chant. I blew a pile of dough On you three years ago Now you refuse to go Or won’t or can’t. Through town and country side I drove thee full of pride No charm you lacked. I loved your gaudy hue Your tires so round and new Now I feel mighty blue The way you act. To thee old rattle box Came many bumps and knocks For thee I grieve. Badly thy top is torn Frayed are thy seats and worn The croup affects thy horn I do believe. Thy perfume swells the breeze While good folks choke and sneeze As we pass by. I paid for thee a price Would buy a mansion twice Now every one yells “Ice” I wonder why. Thy motor has the grip Thy spark plug has the pip And woe is thine. I too have suffered chills Fatigue and kindred ills Trying to pay the bills Since thou wert mine. Gone is my bank roll now No more ’twould choke a cow As once before. Yet if I had the yen So help me John “Amen” I’d buy a car again And speed some more.

The lightning bug is brilliant, But he hasn’t any mind; It wanders through creation With its headlight on behind.

Tobacco is a dirty weed— I like it. It satisfies no moral need— I like it. It makes you fat, it makes you lean, It takes the hair right off your bean, It’s the worst darn stuff I’ve ever seen— I like it.

Little Willie in the best of pink sashes, Fell in the fire and got burned to ashes. Bye and bye the room grew chilly, But nobody wanted to poke up Willie.

Here lies the body of Mary Ann Lowder. She burst while drinking a seidlitz powder, Called from this world, to her heavenly rest, She should have waited till it effervesced.

If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night And you should come to me and there and then Just even hint about paying me that ten I might arise the while But I’d drop dead again. Twice, thought I, the coin to send, My one indebtedness to end. But since I’ve learned a shock so great A prompt remittance would create, I do not like to pay you quite For fear that you might die of fright— So wait.