Part 2 — RUTHLESS RHYMES

When wilful little Willie Black Threw all the tea-things at his mother, She murmured, as she hurled them back, 'One good Tea-urn deserves another!'

Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know, To rest beyond the stars. I miss him, oh! I miss him so,— He had such good cigars.

In the drinking-well (Which the plumber built her) Aunt Eliza fell,—— We must buy a filter.

Absent-minded Edward Brown Drove his lady into town; Suddenly the horse fell down! Mrs. Ned (Newly wed) Threw a fit and lay for dead. Edward, lacking in resource, Chafed the fetlocks of his horse, Sitting with unpleasant force (Just like lead) On the head Of the prostrate Mrs. Ned. She demanded a divorce, Jealous of the favoured horse. Edward had it shot, of course. . . . . . Years have sped; She and Ned Drive a motor now instead.

John, across the broad Atlantic, Tried to navigate a barque, But he met an unromantic And extremely hungry shark. John (I blame his childhood's teachers) Thought to treat this as a lark, Ignorant of how these creatures Do delight to bite a barque. Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and, With a scornful sort of grin, Handled an adjacent oar and Chucked it underneath the chin. At this unexpected juncture, Which he had not reckoned on, Mr. Shark he made a puncture In the barque—and then in John. . . . . . Sad am I, and sore at thinking John had on some clothes of mine; I can almost see them shrinking, Washed repeatedly in brine. I shall never cease regretting That I lent my hat to him, For I fear a thorough wetting Cannot well improve the brim. Oh! to know a shark is browsing, Boldly, blandly, on my boots! Coldly, cruelly carousing On the choicest of my suits! Creatures I regard with loathing, Who can calmly take their fill Of one's Jaeger underclothing:— Down, my aching heart, be still!

Baby roused its father's ire, By a cold and formal lisp; So he placed it on the fire, And reduced it to a crisp. Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit! This is overdoing it!'

My children, you should imitate The harmless, necessary cat, Who eats whatever's on his plate, And doesn't even leave the fat; Who never stays in bed too late, Or does immoral things like that; Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!' He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash! When shadows fall and lights grow dim, He sits beneath the kitchen stair; Regardless as to life and limb, A shady lair he chooses there; And if you tumble over him, He simply loves to hear you swear. And, while bad language you prefer, He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!