A POOR degenerate from the ape,
Whose hands are four, whose tail's a limb,
I contemplate my flaccid shape
And know I may not rival him,

Save with my mind — a nimbler beast
Possessing a thousand sinewy tails
A thousand hands, with which it scales
Greedy of luscious truth, the greased

Poles and the coco palms of thought,
Thrids easily through the mangrove maze
Of metaphysics, walks the taut
Frail dangerous liana ways

That link across wide gulfs remote
Analogies between tree and tree;
Outruns the hare outhops the goat;

Poor Dad he got five years or more as everybody knows,
And now he lives in Maitland Jail with broad arrows on his clothes,
He branded all of Brown's clean-skins and never left a tail,
So I'll relate the family's woes since Dad got put in jail.

Chorus: So stir the wallaby stew,
Make soup of the kangaroo tail,
I tell you things is pretty tough
Since Dad got put in jail.

Our sheep were dead a month ago, not rot but blooming fluke,
Our cow was boozed last Christmas Day by my big brother Luke,

Poor boy. Poor boy. Poor boy long way from home.

I was down in Louisia-a-ana-a
doing as I please
Now I'm in Texa-a-as
I got to work or leave

Poor boy. Poor boy. Poor boy long way from home.

If your home's in Louisiana-a-a
what you doing over here
Said my home ain't in Texa-a-as
and I sure don't care

Poor boy. Poor boy. Poor boy long way from home.

I don't ca-a-are
if the boat don't never la-and
I'd like to stay on the wate-e-e-e-er
as long as any man

Poor boy. Poor boy. Poor boy long way from home.

The poor benighted Hindoo,
He does the besThe kindoo;
— He sticks to caste
— From first to last;
— For pants he makes his skindoo.

Lord thou hast told us that there be
Two dwellings which belong to thee,
And Those two, that's the wonder,
Are far asunder.

The one the highest heaven is,
The mansions of eternal bliss;
The other's the contrite
And humble sprite.

Not like the princes of the earth,
Who think it much below their birth
To come within the door
Of people poor.

No, such is thy humility,
That though thy dwelling be on high,
Thou dost thyself abase
To the lowest place.

Where'er thou seest a sinful soul

P OLAND , France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
" Won't you come and play wiz me " she sang . . . and " I just can't make my eyes behave. "
" Higgeldy-Piggeldy, " " Papa's Wife, " " Follow Me " were plays.

Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.

Twenty years old . . . thirty . . . forty . . .

Poh! did ever one see such a troublesome bear?
No, I will not get up from my seat now, I swear.
Lord! what can you mean by this pulling and teasing?
Sure, there's nothing so bad as a man without reason!
Come, prithee be quiet! For God's sake! See there!
Why, you spoil all my work and all tousle my hair.
You know it as well as myself do, or Nanny,
That this gown must be fitted by four.—Christ! how can ye?
It has put me already quite into a flurry.
Shuh! how can you do so, when one's in a hurry?
It came but this morning, you saw it brought in:

Poets love nature, and themselves are love;
The scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride
The vile in nature worthless deeds approve
They court the vile, and spurn all good beside
Poets love nature, like the calm of heaven
Her gifts like heaven's love spread far and wide
In all her works there are no signs of leaven
Sorrow abashes from her simple pride
Her flowers like pleasures have their seasons birth
And bloom through region[s] here below
They are her very scriptures upon earth
And teach us simple mirth where e'er we go

The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate —
If vital Light

Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —

A POET 's cat, sedate and grave,
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks, to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick—
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE ,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gard'ner at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought