THE MEETING OF THE COLUMNS
Chris and Frank and I
Each had a column;
Chris and I were plump and gay,
But not so F.P.A.:
F.P.A. was solemn—
Not so his Column;
That was full of wit,
As good as My Column
Nearly every bit!
We sat on each an office chair
And all snapped our scissors;
Their things were pretty fair
But all of mine were Whizzers!
Frank wrote of Cyril,
An ungrammatic sinner,
But I wrote of Drink
And Chris wrote of Dinner;
And Frank kept getting thinner
Frank sat like a Bump
Translating from the Latin,
Chris wrote of Happy Homes
I wrote of Alcoholic Foams,
And we still seemed to fatten;
Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been,
I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin!
But we both got fatter,
So the parties didn't matter,
Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her....
F.P.A. went calling
And sang about it sorely ...
"Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!
F.P.A. played tennis
And told the World he did....
I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!
Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry,
But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!
And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me,
To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree:
But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle—
"Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle!
A Grackle with a Hackle,
A ticklish one to tackle
A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...."
And we both began to giggle
And woggle, and wiggle,
And we giggled and we gurgled
And we gargled and were gay ...
For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!
Christopher Morley
(Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own home.)