THE HOBOKEN GRACKLE AND THE HOBO

(An Explanation)

[Steadily]

As I went marching, torn-socked, free,

With my red heart marching all agog in front of me

And my throbbing heels

And my throbbing feet

[With energy]

Making an impression on the Hoboken street

Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird,

[With surprise]

And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard!

Banks—of—poets—round—that—tree—

All of the Poetry Society but me!

[Chatteringly like parrots]

All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle

Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly)

[Cooingly, yet with impatience]

Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet,

Gosh, what a packed street!

The Secretary, President and TREASURER went by!

"That's not a grackle," said I to all of him,

Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim,

"That's an English sparrow on that limb!"

And they all went home

No more to roam.

[Intemperately]

And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam

[With calm majesty]

And I took my bandanna again on my stick

And I walked to the grocery and took my pick

[With domesticity for the moment]

And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn,

Codfish like flakes of snow at morn,

Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen

Laid down change and marched out again

And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free,

With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!