MIGHT BE BETTER!
Small game and scant! The Season's show
Of Birds, in bunches big, adjacent,
Will hardly take JOHN's eye, although
The Poulterer appears complacent,
Seeing, good easy man, quite clearly
That rival shops show yet more queerly.
It can't be said the Birds look young,
Or plump of breast, or fine of feather.
A skinnier lot than SOL has hung
Ne'er skimmed the moor or thronged the heather;
But for dull plumage, shrivelled crop,
Look at the Opposition shop!
Amongst the blind the one-eyed king
Is, not unnaturally, bumptious.
That Poulterer with a swaggering swing
Strides to his door, the stock looks "scrumptious"
In his eyes; but thrasonic diction
To BULL will hardly bring conviction.
"Humph!" mutters JOHN. "A poorish lot!
Scarce tempting to the would-be diner;
This year, SOL,—or may I be shot!—
Your foreign birds appear the finer.
The Home moors have not yielded? Well, Sir,
Let's hope your stock, though scant, may sell, Sir!
"Eh? What? Do better later on?
Give a look in about November?
Well, for the time I must be gone,
Off to the Sea! But I'll remember.
My judgment heat or haste shan't fetter,
But, up to now—things might look better!"