In fact, his works could have been played
In goodly style with no girls—
He never used the soubrette maid
Or based his play on show girls;
And, this for old Euripides:
In none of all his dramas
Did he observe the modern pleas
For chorus in pajamas.
Euripides was Athens' Fitch
Or her Augustus Thomas—
It's really hard to say just which,
But he was full of promise.
It's time that Rippy had his due
And got his share of glory,
For royalties he never knew
And no press agent's story.
Fame twined a wreath on Franklin's brow
A-many years ago—
And yet, how many people now
The reason for it know?
Was it because he wisely wrote
Poor Richard's Almanac
(One of the few, we pause to note,
Which testimonials lack)?
Was Franklin's fame the sure result
Of his philosophy?
(No mental cure or psychic cult
Or Great Uplift had he.)
Was it because for years and years
He was a diplomat?
Why, no. What person ever hears
About such things as that?
Then what did wise Ben Franklin do
That he should merit fame?
That each edition of "Who's Who"
In bold type puts his name?
He flew his kite; he had the key
His front door to unlock—
Like countless other men, then he
Acquired a sudden shock.
The trolley cars and dynamos
And incandescent light
And buzzing fan which coolness blows
All date from Franklin's kite.
But, what an oversight of Fame!
Ben Franklin's wife—'twas she,
That thoughtful, gentle, kindly dame,
Who let him have the key.
