In the damp corse stands Theodore
And takes a hand of each,
As loud and long the happy throng
Cries, "Speech!" again and "Speech!"
Which pleaseth well King Theodore,
Whose practice is to preach.
"Good friends," he says, "lead outdoor lives
And Fame you yet may see—
Just look at Lincoln, Washington,
And great Napoleon B.;
And after that take off your hats
And you may look at me!"
But as he speaks, a Messenger
Cries, "Sire, a telegraft!"
The king up takes the wireless screed
Which he opens fore and aft,
And reads: "The Venezuelan stew
Is boiling over. TAFT."
Then straight the good King Theodore
In anger drops his gun
And turns his flashing spectacles
Toward high-domed Washington.
"O tush!" he saith beneath his breath,
"A man can't have no fun!"
Then comes a disappointed wail
From every rock and tree.
"Good-by, good-by!" the grizzlies cry
And wring their handkerchee.
And a sad bob-cat exclaims, "O drat!
He never shot at me!"
So backward, backward from the hunt
The monarch lopes once more.
The Constitution rides behind
And the Big Stick rides before
(Which was a rule of precedent
In the reign of Theodore).
MY PHILOSOFY
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,
Much posted on philosofy;
But thare is times, when all alone,
I work out idees of my own.
And of these same thare is a few
I'd like to jest refer to you—
Pervidin' that you don't object
To listen clos't and rickollect.