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Read Ebook: Tobogganing on Parnassus by Adams Franklin P Franklin Pierce
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Ebook has 483 lines and 17409 words, and 10 pages
Us Poets
Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff; Much of Moore I have forgotten; Parts of Tennyson are guff; Bits of Byron, too, are rotten.
All of Browning isn't great; There are slipshod lines in Shelley; Every one knows Homer's fate; Some of Keats is vermicelli.
Sometimes Shakespeare hit the slide, Not to mention Pope or Milton; Some of Southey's stuff is snide. Some of Spenser's simply Stilton.
Rubber-Stamp Humour
If couples mated but for love; If women all were perfect cooks; If Hoosier authors wrote no books; If horses always won; If people in the flat above Were silent as the very grave; If foreign counts were prone to save; If tailors did not dun--
If automobiles always ran As advertised in catalogues; If tramps were not afraid of dogs; If servants never left; If comic songs would always scan; If Alfred Austin were sublime; If poetry would always rhyme; If authors all were deft--
If office boys were not all cranks On base-ball; if the selling price Of meat and coal and eggs and ice Would stop its mad increase; If women started saying "Thanks" When men gave up their seats in cars; If there were none but good cigars, And better yet police--
If there were no such thing as booze; If wifey's mother never came To visit; if a foot-ball game Were mild and harmless sport; If all the Presidential news Were colourless; if there were men At every mountain, sea-side, glen, River and lake resort--
If every girl were fair of face; If women did not fear to get Their suits for so-called bathing wet-- If all these things were true, This earth would be a pleasant place. But where would people get their laughs? And whence would spring the paragraphs? And what would jokers do?
The Simple Stuff
AD PUERUM
Horace: Book I, Ode 32.
Nix on the Persian pretence! Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus! Wreaths of the linden tree, hence! Nix on the Persian pretence! Waiter, here's seventy cents-- Come, let me celebrate Bacchus! Nix on the Persian pretence! Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus.
"Carpe Diem," or Cop the Day
AD LEUCONOEN
Horace: Book I, Ode 13.
It is not right for you to know, so do not ask, Leuconoe, How long a life the gods may give or ever we are gone away; Try not to read the Final Page, the ending colophonian, Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor the prophets Babylonian. Better to have what is to come enshrouded in obscurity Than to be certain of the sort and length of our futurity. Why, even as I monologue on wisdom and longevity How Time has flown! Spear some of it! The longest life is brevity.
That For Money!
AD C. SALLUSTIUM CRISPUM
Horace: Book II, Ode 2
Sallust, I know you of old, How you hate the sight of gold-- "Idle ingots that encumber Mother Earth"--I've got your number.
Why is Proculeius known From Elmira to Malone? For his money? Don't upset me! For his love of folks--you get me?
Choke the Rockefeller yen For the clink of iron men! Happiness it will not mint us, Take it from your Uncle Quintus.
Fancy food and wealthy drink Raise Gehenna with a gink; Pastry, terrapin, and cheeses Bring on gout and swell diseases.
Phraates upon the throne Old King Cyrus used to own Fails to hoodwink or deceive me, Cyrus was some king, believe me!
Get me right: a man's-size prince Knows that money is a quince. When they see the Yellow Taffy, Reg'lar Princes don't go daffy.
Xanthias Jollied
AD XANTHIAM PHOCEUM
Horace: Book II, Ode 4.
Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed That she you love is but a servant. Remember, lovers far more famed Were just as fervent.
Achilles loved the pretty slave Briseis for her fair complexion; And to Tecmessa Ajax gave His young affection.
Why, Agamemnon at the height Of feasting, triumph, and anointment, Left everything to keep, one night, A small appointment.
And are you sure the girl you love-- This maid on whom you have your heart set Is lowly--that she is not of The Roman smart set?
A maiden modest as is she, So full of sweetness and forbearance, Must be all right; her folks must be Delightful parents.
Her arms and face I can commend, And, as the writer of a poem, I fain would compliment, old friend, The limbs below 'em.
Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears. My tendencies are far from sporty. Besides, the number of my years Is over forty.
Horace the Wise
AD PYRRHAM
Horace: Book I, Ode 5.
What lady-like youth in his wild aberrations Is putting cologne on his brow? For whom are the puffs and the blond transformations? I wonder who's kissing you now.
Tee hee! I must laugh when I think of his finish, Not wise to your ways and your rep. Ha! ha! how his fancy for you will diminish! I know, for I'm Jonathan Hep.
Jealousy
AD LYDIAM
What mean those marks upon thee, girl? Those prints of brutal osculation? Great grief! that lowlife and that churl! That Telephus abomination! Can him, O votary of Venus, Else everything is off between us.
To Be Quite Frank
IN CHLORIN
Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is Not just exactly Horace's Ideal of a lady At the shady Time of life; You mustn't throw your soul away On foolishness, like Pholoe-- Her days are folly-laden-- She's a maiden, You're a wife.
Your daughter, with propriety, May look for male society, Do one thing and another In which mother Shouldn't mix; But revels Bacchanalian Are--or should be--quite alien To you a married person, Something worse'n Forty-six!
Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much, You love the dance and cup too much, Your years are quickly flitting-- To your knitting, Right about! Forget the incidental things That keep you from parental things-- The World, the Flesh, the Devil, On the level, Cut 'em out!
AD PHYLLIDEM
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