Funny Poetry

• The Owl And The Pussy Cat
  

  The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
  They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
  The Owl looked up to the stars above,
  And sang to a small guitar,
  "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
  What a beautiful Pussy you are,
  You are,
  You are!
  What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

  Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
  How charmingly sweet you sing!
  O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
  But what shall we do for a ring?"
  They sailed away, for a year and a day,
  To the land where the Bong-tree grows
  And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
  With a ring at the end of his nose,
  His nose,
  His nose,
  With a ring at the end of his nose.

  "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
  Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
  So they took it away, and were married next day
  By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
  They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
  Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
  And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
  They danced by the light of the moon,
  The moon,
  The moon,
  They danced by the light of the moon.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• The Old Gumbie Cat
  

  I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
  Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
  All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
  She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

  But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
  Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
  And when all the family's in bed and asleep,
  She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
  She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice
  Their behaviour's not good and their manners not nice;
  So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
  She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.

  I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
  Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
  All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
  She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

  But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
  Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
  As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
  She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
  And believing that nothing is done without trying,
  She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
  She makes them a mouse--cake of bread and dried peas,
  And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.

  I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
  The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
  She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that's smooth and flat:
  She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

  But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
  Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
  She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
  To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
  So she's formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
  A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
  With a purpose in life and a good deed to do
  And she's even created a Beetles' Tattoo.

  So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers
  On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• The Jumblies
  

  They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
  In a Sieve they went to sea:
  In spite of all their friends could say,
  On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
  In a Sieve they went to sea!
  And when the Sieve turned round and round,
  And every one cried, `You'll all be drowned!'
  They called aloud, `Our Sieve ain't big,
  But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
  In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
  In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
  With only a beautiful pea-green veil
  Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
  To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
  And every one said, who saw them go,
  `O won't they be soon upset, you know!
  For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
  And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
  In a Sieve to sail so fast!'
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  The water it soon came in, it did,
  The water it soon came in;
  So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
  In a pinky paper all folded neat,
  And they fastened it down with a pin.
  And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
  And each of them said, `How wise we are!
  Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
  Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
  While round in our Sieve we spin!'
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  And all night long they sailed away;
  And when the sun went down,
  They whistled and warbled a moony song
  To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
  In the shade of the mountains brown.
  `O Timballo! How happy we are,
  When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
  And all night long in the moonlight pale,
  We sail away with a pea-green sail,
  In the shade of the mountains brown!'
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
  To a land all covered with trees,
  And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
  And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
  And a hive of silvery Bees.
  And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
  And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
  And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
  And no end of Stilton Cheese.
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  And in twenty years they all came back,
  In twenty years or more,
  And every one said, `How tall they've grown!
  For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
  And the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
  And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
  Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
  And every one said, `If we only live,
  We too will go to sea in a Sieve,---
  To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Sweeney Among Nightingales
  

  Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
  Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
  The zebra stripes along his jaw
  Swelling to maculate giraffe.

  The circles of the stormy moon
  Slide westward toward the River Plate,
  Death and the Raven drift above
  And Sweeney guards the hornéd gate.

  Gloomy Orion and the Dog
  Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
  The person in the Spanish cape
  Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees

  Slips and pulls the tablecloth
  Overturns a coffee cup,
  Reorganized upon the floor
  She yawns and draws a stocking up;

  The silent man in mocha brown
  Sprawls at the window sill and gapes;
  The waiter brings in oranges
  Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;

  The silent vertebrate in brown
  Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
  Rachel née Rabinovitch
  Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;

  She and the lady in the cape
  Are suspect, thought to be in league;
  Therefore the man with heavy eyes
  Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,

  Leaves the room and reappears
  Outside the window, leaning in,
  Branches of wistaria
  Circumscribe a golden grin;

  The host with someone indistinct
  Converses at the door apart,
  The nightingales are singing near
  The Convent of the Sacred Heart,

  And sang within the bloody wood
  When Agamemnon cried aloud,
  And let their liquid siftings fall
  To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Sestina Of The Tramp
  

  Speakin' in general, I'ave tried 'em all
  The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.
  Speakin' in general, I'ave found them good
  For such as cannot use one bed too long,
  But must get 'ence, the same as I'ave done,
  An' go observin' matters till they die.

  What do it matter where or 'ow we die,
  So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all
  The different ways that different things are done,
  An' men an' women lovin' in this world;
  Takin' our chances as they come along,
  An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good?

  In cash or credit no, it aren't no good;
  You've to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die,
  Unless you lived your life but one day long,
  Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all,
  But drew your tucker some'ow from the world,
  An' never bothered what you might ha' done.

  But, Gawd, what things are they I'aven't done?
  I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good,
  In various situations round the world
  For 'im that doth not work must surely die;
  But that's no reason man should labour all
  'Is life on one same shift life's none so long.

  Therefore, from job to job I've moved along.
  Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done,
  For something in my 'ead upset it all,
  Till I'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good,
  An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die,
  An' met my mate the wind that tramps the world!

  It's like a book, I think, this bloomin, world,
  Which you can read and care for just so long,
  But presently you feel that you will die
  Unless you get the page you're readi'n' done,
  An' turn another likely not so good;
  But what you're after is to turn'em all.

  Gawd bless this world! Whatever she'oth done
  Excep' When awful long I've found it good.
  So write, before I die, "'E liked it all!"

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Song Of The Shirt
  

  With fingers weary and worn,
  With eyelids heavy and red,
  A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
  Plying her needle and thread
  Stitch! stitch! stitch!
  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
  She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

  "Work! work! work!
  While the cock is crowing aloof!
  And work  work  work,
  Till the stars shine through the roof!
  It's Oh! to be a slave
  Along with the barbarous Turk,
  Where woman has never a soul to save,
  If this is Christian work!

  "Work  work  work
  Till the brain begins to swim;
  Work  work  work
  Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
  Seam, and gusset, and band,
  Band, and gusset, and seam,
  Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
  And sew them on in a dream!

  "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
  Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
  It is not linen you're wearing out,
  But human creatures' lives!
  Stitch  stitch  stitch,
  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
  Sewing at once with a double thread,
  A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

  But why do I talk of Death?
  That Phantom of grisly bone,
  I hardly fear its terrible shape,
  It seems so like my own
  It seems so like my own,
  Because of the fasts I keep;
  Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
  And flesh and blood so cheap!

  "Work  work  work!
  My Labour never flags;
  And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
  A crust of bread  and rags.
  That shatter'd roof  and this naked floor
  A table  a broken chair
  And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
  For sometimes falling there!

  "Work  work  work!
  From weary chime to chime,
  Work  work  work!
  As prisoners work for crime!
  Band, and gusset, and seam,
  Seam, and gusset, and band,
  Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
  As well as the weary hand.

  "Work  work  work,
  In the dull December light,
  And work  work  work,
  When the weather is warm and bright
  While underneath the eaves
  The brooding swallows cling
  As if to show me their sunny backs
  And twit me with the spring.

  Oh! but to breathe the breath
  Of the cowslip and primrose sweet
  With the sky above my head,
  And the grass beneath my feet
  For only one short hour
  To feel as I used to feel,
  Before I knew the woes of want
  And the walk that costs a meal!

  Oh! but for one short hour!
  A respite however brief!
  No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
  But only time for Grief!
  A little weeping would ease my heart,
  But in their briny bed
  My tears must stop, for every drop
  Hinders needle and thread!"

  With fingers weary and worn,
  With eyelids heavy and red,
  A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
  Plying her needle and thread
  Stitch! stitch! stitch!
  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
  Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
  She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Hiawatha's Photographing
  

  FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
  Took the camera of rosewood,
  Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
  Neatly put it all together.
  In its case it lay compactly,
  Folded into nearly nothing;

  But he opened out the hinges,
  Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
  Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
  Like a complicated figure
  In the Second Book of Euclid.

  This he perched upon a tripod -
  Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
  Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
  Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
  Mystic, awful was the process.

  All the family in order
  Sat before him for their pictures:
  Each in turn, as he was taken,
  Volunteered his own suggestions,
  His ingenious suggestions.

  First the Governor, the Father:
  He suggested velvet curtains
  Looped about a massy pillar;
  And the corner of a table,
  Of a rosewood dining-table.
  He would hold a scroll of something,
  Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
  He would keep his right-hand buried
  (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
  He would contemplate the distance
  With a look of pensive meaning,
  As of ducks that die ill tempests.

  Grand, heroic was the notion:
  Yet the picture failed entirely:
  Failed, because he moved a little,
  Moved, because he couldn't help it.

  Next, his better half took courage;
  SHE would have her picture taken.
  She came dressed beyond description,
  Dressed in jewels and in satin
  Far too gorgeous for an empress.
  Gracefully she sat down sideways,
  With a simper scarcely human,
  Holding in her hand a bouquet
  Rather larger than a cabbage.
  All the while that she was sitting,
  Still the lady chattered, chattered,
  Like a monkey in the forest.
  "Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
  "Is my face enough in profile?
  Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
  Will it came into the picture?"
  And the picture failed completely.

  Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
  He suggested curves of beauty,
  Curves pervading all his figure,
  Which the eye might follow onward,
  Till they centered in the breast-pin,
  Centered in the golden breast-pin.
  He had learnt it all from Ruskin
  (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
  'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
  'Modern Painters,' and some others);
  And perhaps he had not fully
  Understood his author's meaning;
  But, whatever was the reason,
  All was fruitless, as the picture
  Ended in an utter failure.

  Next to him the eldest daughter:
  She suggested very little,
  Only asked if he would take her
  With her look of 'passive beauty.'

  Her idea of passive beauty
  Was a squinting of the left-eye,
  Was a drooping of the right-eye,
  Was a smile that went up sideways
  To the corner of the nostrils.

  Hiawatha, when she asked him,
  Took no notice of the question,
  Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
  But, when pointedly appealed to,
  Smiled in his peculiar manner,
  Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
  Bit his lip and changed the subject.

  Nor in this was he mistaken,
  As the picture failed completely.

  So in turn the other sisters.

  Last, the youngest son was taken:
  Very rough and thick his hair was,
  Very round and red his face was,
  Very dusty was his jacket,
  Very fidgety his manner.
  And his overbearing sisters
  Called him names he disapproved of:
  Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
  Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.'
  And, so awful was the picture,
  In comparison the others
  Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
  To have partially succeeded.

  Finally my Hiawatha
  Tumbled all the tribe together,
  ('Grouped' is not the right expression),
  And, as happy chance would have it
  Did at last obtain a picture
  Where the faces all succeeded:
  Each came out a perfect likeness.

  Then they joined and all abused it,
  Unrestrainedly abused it,
  As the worst and ugliest picture
  They could possibly have dreamed of.
  'Giving one such strange expressions -
  Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
  Really any one would take us
  (Any one that did not know us)
  For the most unpleasant people!'
  (Hiawatha seemed to think so,
  Seemed to think it not unlikely).
  All together rang their voices,
  Angry, loud, discordant voices,
  As of dogs that howl in concert,
  As of cats that wail in chorus.

  But my Hiawatha's patience,
  His politeness and his patience,
  Unaccountably had vanished,
  And he left that happy party.
  Neither did he leave them slowly,
  With the calm deliberation,
  The intense deliberation
  Of a photographic artist:
  But he left them in a hurry,
  Left them in a mighty hurry,
  Stating that he would not stand it,
  Stating in emphatic language
  What he'd be before he'd stand it.
  Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
  Hurriedly the porter trundled
  On a barrow all his boxes:
  Hurriedly he took his ticket:
  Hurriedly the train received him:
  Thus departed Hiawatha.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• The Lobster-Quadrille
  

  "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail.
  "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
  See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
  They are waiting on the shingle - will you come and join the dance?
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

  "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
  When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
  But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance -
  Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
    Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
    Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

  "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
  "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
  The further off from England the nearer is to France -
  Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Beautiful Soup
  

  BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich and green,
  Waiting in a hot tureen!
  Who for such dainties would not stoop?
  Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
  Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

  Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
  Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
  Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
  Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

  Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
  Game, or any other dish?
  Who would not give all else for two
  Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
  Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

  Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
  Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
  Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
  Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• You are old, father William
  

  "You are old, father William," the young man said,
  "And your hair has become very white;
  And yet you incessantly stand on your head
  Do you think, at your age, it is right?

  "In my youth," father William replied to his son,
  "I feared it might injure the brain;
  But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
  Why, I do it again and again."

  "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
  And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
  Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door
  Pray what is the reason for that?"

  "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
  "I kept all my limbs very supple
  By the use of this ointment one shilling a box
  Allow me to sell you a couple?"

  "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
  For anything tougher than suet;
  Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak
  Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

  "In my youth," said his fater, "I took to the law,
  And argued each case with my wife;
  And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
  Has lasted the rest of my life."

  "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
  That your eye was as steady as ever;
  Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose
  What made you so awfully clever?"

  "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
  Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
  Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
  Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• The Walrus and the Carpenter
  

  The sun was shining on the sea,
  Shining with all his might;
  He did his very best to make
  The billows smooth and bright—
  And this was odd, because it was
  The middle of the night.

  The moon was shining sulkily,
  Because she thought the sun
  Had got no business to be there
  After the day was done—
  "It's very rude of him," she said,
  "To come and spoil the fun!"

  The sea was wet as wet could be,
  The sands were dry as dry.
  You could not see a cloud, because
  No cloud was in the sky;
  No birds were flying overhead—
  There were no birds to fly.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter
  Were walking close at hand;
  They wept like anything to see
  Such quantities of sand.
  "If this were only cleared away,"
  They said, "it would be grand!"

  "If seven maids with seven mops
  Swept it for half a year,
  Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
  "That they could get it clear?"
  "I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
  And shed a bitter tear.

  "O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
  The Walrus did beseech.
  "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
  Along the briny beach;
  We cannot do with more than four,
  To give a hand to each."

  The eldest Oyster looked at him,
  But never a word he said;
  The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
  And shook his heavy head—
  Meaning to say he did not choose
  To leave the oyster-bed.

  But four young Oysters hurried up,
  All eager for the treat;
  Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
  Their shoes were clean and neat—
  And this was odd, because, you know,
  They hadn't any feet.

  Four other Oysters followed them,
  And yet another four;
  And thick and fast they came at last,
  And more, and more, and more—
  All hopping through the frothy waves,
  And scrambling to the shore.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter
  Walked on a mile or so,
  And then they rested on a rock
  Conveniently low;
  And all the little Oysters stood
  And waited in a row.

  "The time has come," the Walrus said,
  "To talk of many things:
  Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
  And cabbages—and kings—
  And why the sea is boiling hot—
  And whether pigs have wings."

  "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
  "Before we have our chat;
  For some of us are out of breath,
  And all of us are fat!"
  "No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
  They thanked him much for that.

  "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
  "Is what we chiefly need;
  Pepper and vinegar besides
  Are very good indeed—
  Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
  We can begin to feed."

  "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
  Turning a little blue.
  "After such kindness, that would be
  A dismal thing to do!"
  "The night is fine," the Walrus said,
  "Do you admire the view?"

  "It was so kind of you to come!
  And you are very nice!"
  The Carpenter said nothing but
  "Cut us another slice.
  I wish you were not quite so deaf—
  I've had to ask you twice!"

  "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
  "To play them such a trick,
  After we've brought them out so far,
  And made them trot so quick!"
  The Carpenter said nothing but
  "The butter's spread too thick!"

  "I weep for you," the Walrus said;
  "I deeply sympathize."
  With sobs and tears he sorted out
  Those of the largest size,
  Holding his pocket-handkerchief
  Before his streaming eyes.

  "O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
  "You've had a pleasant run!
  Shall we be trotting home again?"
  But answer came there none—
  And this was scarcely odd, because
  They'd eaten every one.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Macavity - The Mystery Cat
  

  Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
  For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
  He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
  For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

  Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,
  He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
  His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
  And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
  You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--
  But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

  Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
  You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
  His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
  His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
  He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
  And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

  Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
  For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
  You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--
  But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

  He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
  And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
  And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
  Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
  Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--
  Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

  And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,
  Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
  There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--
  But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!
  And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
  "It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
  You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
  Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

  Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
  There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
  He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
  And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
  And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
  (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
  Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
  Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• I Dream of Jeanie With The Light Brown Hair
  

  I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
  Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;
  I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
  Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.
  Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour,
  Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:
  Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
  Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

  I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile,
  Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;
  I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,
  Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die:
  Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain,
  Wailing for the lost one that comes not again:
  Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,
  Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

  I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed
  Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
  Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
  Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
  Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
  While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
  Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
  Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Jabberwocky
  

  'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
  All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

  He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
  So rested he by the Tumtum tree.
  And stood awhile in thought.

  And as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
  Came wiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

  One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
  He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

  "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
  frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
  He chortled in his joy.

  'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
  All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago
• Gus - The Theatre Cat
  

  Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
  His name, as I ought to have told you before,
  Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
  To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
  His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
  And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
  Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--
  But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
  For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
  Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
  And whenever he joins his friends at their club
  (Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
  He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
  With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
  For he once was a Star of the highest degree--
  He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
  And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
  Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
  But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
  Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

  "I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
  And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
  I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
  And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
  I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
  With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
  I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
  Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
  I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
  When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
  In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
  And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
  But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
  Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

  Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
  He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
  At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
  When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
  He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
  Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
  And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
  Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
  And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
  To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
  And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained
  As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
  They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
  And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."
  And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
  "Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
  These modern productions are all very well,
  But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
  That moment of mystery
  When I made history
  As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

  
  In Funny - 203 days ago