PRESENCE OF MIND.
Proud is not the word for me
When I hear my 8-h.p.
Latest model motor-bike,
Having dodged the latest strike,
Is awaiting me complete
At the garage down the street.
Joyfully I take my way
(And a cheque-book too to pay
The two hundred odd they thought it
Right to charge the man who bought it).
Still, it is a lovely creature,
Up-to-date in every feature,
And a side-car, painted carmine—
Joy! to think they really are mine!
Time is short; I don't lose much in
Starting, and I let the clutch in;
Lest I should accelerate
Passing through the garage-gate,
Feeling certain as to what'll
Happen, I shut off the throttle,
When—my heart begins to beat—
I'm propelled across the street
In a way I never reckoned,
Gathering speed at every second.
Frantic, I apply the brake,
Realising my mistake
With my last remaining wit:
I've not shut, but opened it!
In another instant I
Hit the curb and start to fly.
Aeronautic friends of mine
Say that flying is divine;
Now I've tried it I confess
Few things interest me less,
Still, I own that in a sense
It is an experience.
These and other thoughts are there
As I whistle through the air,
And continue till I stop
In an ironmonger's shop
(Kept by Mr. Horne, a kind
Soul, but deaf and very blind).
Still—I mention this with pride,
For it shows how well I ride—
I have left the bike outside.
Little Mrs. Horne is sitting
In the neat back-parlour, knitting.
Mr. Horne, who hears the din
Which I make in coming in,
Leaves the shop and says to her:
"Martha, here's a customer.
From the sound of clinking metal
I should judge he wants a kettle."
Mrs. H. shows some surprise
At the sight that greets her eyes,
And, in answer to her shout,
Mr. H. comes running out.
Now, it's something of a strain
On the busy human brain
Passing through a window-pane
To decide what it will do
When at last it's safely through.
As I gaze around I find—
Horror! why, I must be blind!
Blind or dead, I don't know which—
All about is black as pitch;
Thick the atmosphere as well
With a dank metallic smell....
Guessing that I am not dead
I attempt to loose my head
From a kettle's cold embrace;
And, meanwhile, to save my face
(Finding I can't get it out),
Say politely—up the spout—
"Lovely morning, is it not, Horne?
Think I'll take this little lot, Horne;
It is such a perfect fit,
And I'm so attached to it
That I find I cannot bring
My own head to leave the thing.
So you will oblige me greatly
If you'll pack them separately."