The reader is admonished to a life of gentleness and charity.
And so I’ve tried to tune a verse Or so, to eulogize Our kitchen’s little universe, Unique, unnumbered universe Of busy, buzzy flies. With measures lilting, lyrical I’ve striven to describe In ballad panegyrical— In part it’s panegyrical, This much despiséd tribe. And if I’ve touched the heart of you, Oh promise me you’ll try To crush that naughty party of you, That pugilistic part of you And NEVER swat a fly.
A DINO’S AURA
Now Cloud Cap’s near to Cooper Spur Hard by the timber-line, Above it looms the mountain and Below it blooms the pine.
It’s reared of logs and sits bang up Right pert upon a crag, And through the roof a chimney’s built Of hacked volcanic slag.
We gathered ’round the fireplace there— The guide, the guests and me, The Junior from New Haven and The man from Tennessee.
We’d had a rousing dinner of Spaghetti and roast-lamb, Substantially supported by A chowder made of clam.
We talked about the morrow and The perils of the hike, About the snowy crater there And what it all was like.