I sat me down in pride to gloat
Upon the column that you wrote,
In which you, sir, were pleased to quote
From me and Riley—
From me and him,
From me and Jim,
From me and Riley.
The tout ensemble did impel
My manly chest to heave and swell;
The combination "liked me well;"
Me, you and Riley.
It seemed a great
Triumvirate—
Me, You and Riley.
But soon in deep humility
My head was bowed, and I could see
The difference 'tween little me
And You and Riley.
I lacked the art
To touch the heart
Like you and Riley.
You seem to write with greatest ease,
Of cheerful mien, of birds and bees,
And out-of-doorsy things one sees—
And so does Riley.
With master-stroke,
To common folk
Write you and Riley.
I take a hack-saw and a square
And cut my rhymes with greatest care;
'Tis harder work for me, I swear,
Than you and Riley.
And yet I fail
To hit the nail
Like you and Riley.
You write in prose—a rhymer he—
And yet 't has always seemed to me
Your souls alike must surely be—
Yours, sir, and Riley's.
You love each thing
Of which you sing—
Do you and Riley.
A bas Polyanna!
Wherein the Jumbler finds the Cheeruptimistic Lore a bore.
I hate the Pollyanna cult! Cheeruptimistic lore, that now confronts at every turn, long since became a bore. In daily press, in magazines, in every thing I read, the sugar-coated life's prescribed as man's most urgent need. 'Tis O be joyful, grin and smile, let tears be left unshed; just purr and sing the whole day long, then pass it on ahead! If grandma dies or cook takes leave or father breaks a leg, be glad, be glad; and if you're broke, why, whistle as you beg! Now I, for one, refuse to live a grinning Cheshire cat. I'm just as human, mad as glad—a fool can tell you that. All sunshine makes a desert waste, and honey-words soon pall; because someone's in harder luck can't make me glad at all. A man has special muscles just to corrugate his brow; the Lord knew when he fashioned them that they'd be used, and how. I want my friends without veneer, straightforward as can be; and I will grant them outlet for innate depravity. Why bluff and play that grief's not real? Why blush to shed a tear? A temper may be lost and found, with Paradise still near. No need to gloom or grouch or fret, no need to howl or whine; but may the right to voice a grief or own a pain be mine.
If You'd Marry
Advice to wimmin "On Marriage," by the Jumbler.