The Pickaninny to the bayou goes And caches on the bank his homespun clothes; Then headlong leaps into the pool below Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go. An alligator sees the urchin dive And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive, Not thinking that the Afric _strength_, thus caged, Would prove his match and master when engaged: But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian; And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail, (A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale) The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some! So overjoyed was he at such an _outcome_. When Aaron Burr decided to invite His hated rival to a pistol fight, He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked, That his opponent, in advance, was líckéd. And thus the scheme of Providence began To canonize the Hamiltonian. Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn, There might have been a different kind of yarn. She could have said "I leave you" with the bull, Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool; The lamb could have replied--"What's all this for? I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!" But No! They had to make the sheep the goat And tie a siren bell around his throat, And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule, Would rather _much_ be killed than go to school. Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose, He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero, Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero. But quite another part this Cæsar played, The part of Arson in red robes arrayed. He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases, Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes. But Nero didn't finish what he started Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted. Tho Julius Cæsar's Wars our lives inspire This Cæsar wouldn't even fight a fire; Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho He was reputed skillful with the bow; Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty; And when at last this King is placed on trial, This verdict will prevail,--his work was viol. Had Antony been less a Marc and kept His armor on while Cleopatra slept, He might have been a Conqueror of note Instead of Captor of a Petticoat; And, traitor to his country, judged to be A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie. Some Commentators--and I blush with shame-- Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same: If this contention's true, as I surmise, It follows that King Solomon was wise; And so was Sheba when she left his regions By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,-- Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders, To pine for her among the stately cedars. I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce? The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong _but once_?