LINES ON (AND OFF) AN ITALIAN MULE
O dubious hybrid, what your patronymic
Or pedigree may be, does not much matter;
But if my own attire you mean to mimic,
And flaunt the fact that you, too, have a hatter—
Well then, in self-defence I'll pick with you
A bone or two.
Perchance you have a motive, deep, ulterior,
In donning head-gear borrowed from banditti?
You wish to show an intellect superior,
(And hide a profile which is not too pretty?
Or is it, simply, you prefer to go
Incognito?
A transmigrated Balaam's self you may be,
But still I bar your method of progression;
For while I sit, as helpless as a baby,
And scale each precipice in steep succession,
You scorn the mule-track, and pursue the edge
Of ev'ry ledge.
How can I scan with rapt enthusiasm
These Alpine heights, when balanced à la Blondin,
While you survey with bird's-eye view each chasm?
I cry Eyupp! Avanti!—you respond in
Attempts straightway to improvise a "chute"
For me, you brute!
Basta! per Bacco! I'll no longer straddle
(With cramp in each adductor and extensor)
This seat of torture that they call a saddle!
Va via! in plain English, get thee hence, or——
On second thoughts, to leave unsaid the rest,
I think, were best!
