Myrt, I have stood for a good deal,
As one will in this Cupid game,
But now I know I'll never feel
Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same
Since I have seen you on the job
Of eating corn—corn on the cob.
She Is Not Fair
"She is not fair to outward view";
No beauty hers of form or face
She hath no witchery, 'tis true,
No grace.
Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,
Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair
Hath she. She is—I am not blind—
Not fair.
What makes me love her, then? say you,
For such a maid is not my wont.
Love her! What makes you think I do?
I don't.
To Myrtilla Again
Myrtilla, when the thought of you
Obstructs my cold, unbiased view,
And keeps me from
My hard though hum-
Ble task,
I do not murmur nor complain
I do not ululate nor feign
A love for vin
Or what is in
A flask.
When, as I said in stanza first,
My mind is thoroughly immersed
With you until
My pulses thrill
And throb,
I don't, in tones more picturesque
Than journalistic, slam my desk,
And in a fit
Of frenzy quit
My job.
When, as I may have said before,
Your image I can not ignore,
I do not tear
My thinning hair
Nor cuss;
I leave such sentimental show
To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe
I merely spill
Some ink, Myrtil-
La, thus.