What could be dafter Than John Skelton's laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton? He was no monstrous Milton, Nor wrote no "Paradise Lost," So wondered at by most, Phrased so disdainfully, Composed so painfully. He struck what Milton missed, Milling an English grist With homely turn and twist. He was English through and through, Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew, Though well their tongues he knew, The living and the dead: Learned Erasmus said, _Hie 'unum Britannicarum Lumen et decus literarum._ But oh, Colin Clout! How his pen flies about, Twiddling and turning, Scorching and burning, Thrusting and thrumming! How it hurries with humming, Leaping and running, At the tipsy-topsy Tunning Of Mistress Eleanor Rumming! How for poor Philip Sparrow Was murdered at Carow, How our hearts he does harrow Jest and grief mingle In this jangle-jingle, For he will not stop To sweep nor mop, To prune nor prop, To cut each phrase up Like beef when we sup, Nor sip at each line As at brandy-wine, Or port when we dine. But angrily, wittily, Tenderly, prettily, Laughingly, learnedly, Sadly, madly, Helter-skelter John Rhymes serenely on, As English poets should. Old John, you do me good! I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED? Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas! The candles a tall lightship; my two hands Are boats and barges anchored to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound. The seas run high and the boats split asunder.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships. My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ DOUBLE RED DAISIES Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes--but no, I root them up because they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. _Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._ Double red daisy, that's my mark: I paint it in all my books! It's carved high up on the beech-tree bark, How neat and lovely it looks! So don't forget that it's my trade mark; Don't copy it in your books. _Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._ CAREERS