Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. II
General
Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. II
Parodies
What hurts the eyes and makes them red,
Gives one a bad cold in the head,
And makes one think one’s nearly dead?
The fog!
What in the day produces night,
And keeps the flaring gas alight,
And takes away one’s appetite?
The fog.
What doth all London discompose,
Yet whence it comes and where it goes
No living human being knows?
The fog!
_Judy_, November 1, 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE NERVOUS.
Who taught me when there was a draught,
And showed me perils fore and aft
And frowned when I untimely laughed?
The Nervous.
Who told me when the glass would rise
Or fall, and with their prophecies,
Or recollections, made me wise?
The Nervous.
Who heard a crash before it fell
And knew things were not going well,
And would some warning story tell?
The Nervous.
Who, when I was a pachyderm,
By many a proper piercing term
Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm?
The Nervous.
_The Argosy Magazine_, 1866.
――――:o:――――
MY BANKER.
_Dedicated (without respect) to certain Bank Mis-Directors._
BY A MAN OF NO ACCOUNT.
“I know a bank which when a wild time rose,
Stopped payment, and resolved its doors to close.”
――_Shakespeare perverted._
Though times are hard, who is’t one sees
Enjoying life’s luxurious ease
By spending others’ £. s. d’s?
My Banker.
Who cows the trader with a glance,
And eyes poor shopkeepers askance,
And wastes their money in――“finance”?
My Banker.
Whose style the ignorant delights,
Who orphans’ confidence invites,
And freely takes the widows’ mites?
My Banker.
Who finds religion’s cloak to pay
And client’s money ev’ry day
In charity, who gives away?
My Banker.
Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide
For wealth and ostentatious pride
Until for peculation tried?
My Banker.
Who makes of roguery a trade,
Who, by his conscience undismayed,
To other rascals lends his aid?
My Banker.
Who is’t would have us to believe
A child in arms he’d not deceive,
Yet all the while will lie and thieve?
My Banker.
Who, when my Banker stares aghast
At prison walls which hold him fast,
Rejoices that he’s caught at last?
My-self.
_Judy_, January 29, 1879.
――――:o:――――
MY BROTHER.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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