“I BOUGHT A BOOK OF VERSE”
“The poem reads as follows,” continued Paterson, ignoring the chairman’s ill-timed remark:
RETRIBUTION
Writ a pome about a kid.
Finest one I ever did.
Heaped it full o’ sentiment—
Very best I could invent.
Talked about his little toys;
How he played with other boys;
How the beasts an’ birdies all
Come when little Jamie’d call.
’N’ ’en I took that little lad,
Gave him fever, mighty bad.
’N’ ’en it sorter pleased my whim
To have him die and bury him.
It got printed, too, it did
That small pome about the kid,
In a paper in the West;
Put ten dollars in my vest.
Every pa an’ ma about
Cried like mighty—cried right out.
I jess took each grandma’s heart,
Lammed and bruised it, made it smart;
’N’ everybody said o’ me,
“Finest pote we ever see,”
’Cept one beggar, he got mad.
Got worst lickin’ ever had;
Got my head atween his fists,
Called me “Prince o’ anarchists.”
Clipped me one behind my ear—
Laid me up for ’most a year.
“’Cause,” he said, “my poetry
’D made his wife an’ mother cry;
“’Twarn’t no poet’s bizness to
Make the wimmin all boo-hoo.”
’N’ ’at is why to-day, by Jings!
I don’t fool with hearts an’ things.
I don’t care how high the bids,
I’ve stopped scribblin’ ’bout dead kids;
’R if I haven’t, kinder sorter
Think ’at maybe p’r’aps I’d oughter.
“IT FILLED ME WITH DISMAY”