If not to works of piety inclined, Then recreation might have claimed his mind. The harmless game that shows the feline greed To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A] Is better sport than victimizing Creed; And a far livelier satisfaction comes Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B] If neither worthy work nor play command This gentleman of leisure's heart and hand, Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift By hope of profit to some deed of thrift. Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin, No tin to mend, no glass to be put in, No housewife worthy of a morning visit, Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit? Lo! the blind sow's precarious pursuit Of the aspiring oak's familiar fruit!-- 'Twould more advantage any man to steal This easy victim's undefended meal Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so Expose the state to his narcotic flow! [Footnote A: "Pussy Wants a Corner."] [Footnote B: "Simon Says Thumbs Up."] THE DEAD KING Hawaii's King resigned his breath-- Our Legislature guffawed. The awful dignity of death Not any single rough awed. But when our Legislators die All Kings, Queens, Jacks and Aces cry. A PATTER SONG There was a cranky Governor-- His name it wasn't Waterman. For office he was hotter than The love of any lover, nor Was Boruck's threat of aiding him Effective in dissuading him-- This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman. To citrus fairs, _et cætera_, He went about philandering, To pride of parish pandering. He knew not any better--ah, His early education had Not taught the abnegation fad-- The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering! He conjured up, _ad libitum_, With postures energetical, One day (this is prophetical) His graces, to exhibit 'em. He straddled in each attitude, Four parallels of latitude-- The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unæsthetical! An ancient cow, perceiving that His powers of agility Transcended her ability (A circumstance for grieving at) Upon her horns engrafted him And to the welkin wafted him-- The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility! A CALLER "Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well." Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail, He entered that serene assassin's cell And hung his hat and coat upon a nail. "I think that life in this secluded spot Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?" "Well, yes," said Goldenson, "I can't complain: Life anywhere--provided it is mine-- Agrees with me; but I observe with pain That still the people murmur and repine. It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt, To see a persecuted man grow stout."