Classic Poem

Over the country, from coast to coast,
I've travelled considerable, more or less;
I've been to Canarsie and Painted Post,
I've been to St. Louis and Holderness.
But withersoever I may progress.
With baggage enough for a fortnight's stay,
I find, with a sorrow I can't repress,
Mine is the trunk that goes astray.

I never — no, never! — was one to boast;
Though me the Graces have seemed to bless
With this honour, a greater than comes to most,
I bear it meekly, without duress.
Of other affairs I make no mess;
I'm lucky at every game I play;
Yet, packed with what clothing I may possess,
Mine is the trunk that goes astray.

Others who travel comprise a host
Carrying a million trunks, I guess;
But never the shadow, hint, or ghost
Of a chance one goes to the wrong address.
But my trunk travels the whole U. S. —
Or, as some might put it, the U. S. A. —
You ask me does it miscarry? YES!
Mine is the trunk that goes astray.

L'ENVOI

Prince, it worries me, I confess,
Every time that I go away.
And this is my major and one distress:
Mine is the trunk that goes astray.