His Majesty, the West Wind

Once in a fit of mental aberration
I wrote some stanzas to the western wind,
A very stupid, maudlin invocation
That into ears of audiences I've dinned.

A song about a sail, canoe and paddle,
Recited I, in sailor flannels dressed,
And when they heard it people would skiddadle,
Particularly those who had been west.

For they, alas, had knowledge. I was striving
To write of something I had never known,
That I had ne'er experienced — the driving
Of western winds across a prairie blown.

I never thought when grinding out those stanzas,
I'd live to swallow pecks of prairie dust,
That I'd deny my old extravaganzas,
And wish his Majesty distinctly — cussed.
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