Tood
T OOD is a skipping, wartish kind of pest,
Pun-Hawker, Smirker, Smut-Wit; Wags' Review;
His tricky eyes flick dubious quips at you;
Sometimes his manner brags: “But at my best
I rise above the scandalous, timely jest——
My taste is known: I've written sonnets, too!”
One thrust of silence runs him through and through;
He hates, and stings, for thoughts of him half-guessed.
One night Tood dreamed he was not popular;
It frightened him; he spent the fortnight after
That ghastly trance in flight from bar to bar,
Cadging from friend to friend to beg their laughter—
Then, reassured, took up again his trade,
Biting when safe and fawning when afraid.
Pun-Hawker, Smirker, Smut-Wit; Wags' Review;
His tricky eyes flick dubious quips at you;
Sometimes his manner brags: “But at my best
I rise above the scandalous, timely jest——
My taste is known: I've written sonnets, too!”
One thrust of silence runs him through and through;
He hates, and stings, for thoughts of him half-guessed.
One night Tood dreamed he was not popular;
It frightened him; he spent the fortnight after
That ghastly trance in flight from bar to bar,
Cadging from friend to friend to beg their laughter—
Then, reassured, took up again his trade,
Biting when safe and fawning when afraid.
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