Impertinent Poems

BETTER

There's only one motto you needTo succeed:"Better."To other man's winning? Then youMust doBetter.From the baking of breadTo the breaking a head,From rhyming a balladTo sliming a salad,From mending of ditchesTo spending of riches,Follow the rule to the uttermost letter:"Better!"Of course you may say but a fewCan doBetter;And you're going to striveSo that all may thriveBetter.And it's right you areTo follow the star,Set in the heavens, afar, afar;But still with your eyesOn the skiesIt is wiseTo be riding a mule,Or guiding a school,Thatching a hovelOr hatching a novel,Foretelling weather,Or selling shoe-leather;And remember you mustBe doing it justA wee dustBetter.And 'tis quiteAs rightFor you to citeThat the author might,Or ought, to writeA heavenly sightBetter!For which sharp word I am much your debtor,Knowing none other could file my fetterBetter.

FORGET WHAT THE OTHER MAN HATH

What do I care for your four-track line?I have a country path;And this is the message I've taken for mine: —"Forget what the other man hath."What do I care for your giant trees?I'd rather whittle a lath,And my motto helps me to take my ease; —"Forget what the other man hath."What do I care for your Newport beach?A tub's as good for a bath.And I keep my solace in constant reach: —"Forget what the other man hath."What do I care for your automobile?I'm saving repairs and wrath,My proverb goes well with an old style wheel; —"Forget what the other man hath."What do I care if you scorn my rime?For this is its aftermath; —It sounds so well I shall try, (sometime,)To "forget what the other man hath!"

THE WHET

The day that I loaf when I ought to employ itHas, somehow, the flavor which makes me enjoy it.So the man with no workHe may joyously shirkI envy no more than I do the Grand Turk.He most is in need of a holiday, who,In this workaday world, has no duty to do.The dollar you waste when you ought not to spend itBuys something no plutocrat's millions could lend it,For if once you exhaustAll your care of the cost,Full half of the pleasure of purchase is lost,So I trust you are one who is wise in discerningThe value of spending is most in the earning.My little success which was nearest completeWas that which I tore from the teeth of defeat,And the man who can hitWith his wisdom and witWithout any effort, I envy no whit.The genius whose laurels grow always the greenestFinds pleasure in plenty, but misses the keenest.

WHAT SORT ARE YOU?

"How much do you want for your A. Street lot?"Said a real estate man to me.I looked as if I were lost in thoughtAnd then I replied: "Let's see; —Black's sold last year at fifty the footAnd without using algebra that should putMy figure at sixty now, I guess,Or a trifle more, or a trifle less."I was anxious to sell at fifty straight,Or I might have been glad of forty-eight.Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;What sort of a bluff are you?"And what do you think of these railroad rates?"The man with a bald brow said,"For you have travelled through all the statesAnd have heard a good deal and read.""The railroad lines," I wisely replied"Are the lines with which our trade is tied,And the wretches who take their rebates setNew knots in the bonds under which we fret."But, now I remember, I once rode freeAnd forgot that the road rebated me!Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, its true;How much of a bluff are you?"You've been to hear 'Siegfried' and found it fine?"Cried a classical friend one day."I'm sure your impressions accord with mine,But I want your own words and way.And, oh, "the tone-color beats belief,"And, oh, "dynamics," and oh, "motif,"And "chiar-oscura, how finely abstruse,"And oh, la-la-la, and oh, well, what's the use?For the only thing I understood in the playWas that dippy, old dragon of papier-maché.Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;What style of a bluff are you?"And the senator should, you believe, be returned?"Said a newspaper-man to me."He's as rotten a rascal as ever burned,"I said. "May I quote?" asked he."Oh, no," I replied, "if you're going to quote,Just remark that his friends are regretting to noteThat the exigencies of the party caseIndicate that he shouldn't re-enter the race."For the senator sometime may possibly beInterviewed by a newspaper-man about me.No, none of these cases may quite fit you,But what sort of a bluff are you?

THE CRITICS

As a matter of fact,I am sure I can act,And so,When I go,To the show,Not the art of an IrvingSeems wholly deserving,And though Booth were the starHe'd have many a jar,If he heard the critiqueWhich I frequently speak,As youDo,Too.Written deep in my heartIs a knowledge of art,For why?I've an eyeLike a die.And where Raphael's paintHas bedizened some saint,I note his perspectiveIs sadly defective,And you? O, I knowWhen you've looked on CorotThe sameBlameCame.And the world would have gainedIf my voice had been trained,For my earIs severe,As I hearDe Reszke and Patti.(I've heard 'em sing "ratty!")And the crowd has yelled "Bis!"When a call for policeShould have shortened the score.Was there ever a moreAbsurdWordHeard?And I feel, now and then,I could handle a pen,For indeed,As I heedWhat I read,I observe many faults;Homer nods, Shakespere halts,Dante's sad, Pope is trite,Poe's mechanic, Holmes light,Yet so easy to doIs the thing, even youMightWriteQuiteBright!

PLUG

As you haven't asked me for advice, I'll give it to you now:Plug!No matter who or what you are, or where you are, the howIs plug.You may take your dictionary, unabridged, and con it through,You may swallow the Britannica and all its retinue,But here I lay it f. o. b. – the only word for youIs plug.Are you in the big procession, but away behind the band?Plug!On the cobble, or asphaltum, in the mud or in the sand,Plug!Oh, you'll hear the story frequently of how some clever manCut clean across the country, so that now he's in the van;You may think that you will do it, but I don't believe you can,So plug!Are you singing in the chorus? Do you want to be a star?Plug!You may think that you're a genius, but I don't believe you are,So plug!Oh, you'll hear of this or that one who was born without a name,Who slept eleven hours a day and dreamed the way to fame,Who simply couldn't push it off, so rapidly it came!But plug.Are you living in the valley? Do you want to reach the height?Plug!Where the hottest sun of day is and the coldest stars of night?Plug!Oh, it may be you're a fool, but if a fool you want to be,If you want to climb above the crowd so every one can seeJust how a fool may look when he is at his apogee,Why, plug!Can you make a mile a minute? Do you want to make it two?Plug!Are you good and up against it? Well, the only thing to doIs plug.Oh, you'll find some marshy places, where the crust is pretty thin,And when you think you're gliding out, you're only sliding in,But the only thing for you to do is think of this and grin,And plug.There's many a word that's prettier that hasn't half the cheerOf plug.It may not save you in a day, but try it for a year.Plug!And to show you I am competent to tell you what is what,I assure you that I never yet have made a centre shot,Which surely is an ample demonstration that I oughtTo plug.

FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTENT

IYou sometimes think you'd like to beJohn D.?And not a man you know would dareTo josh you on your handsome hair,Or say, "Hey, John, it's rather rudeTo boost refined and jump on crude,To help Chicago University,Or bull the doctrine of – immersity."IIYou wouldn't care to be the Pope,I hope?With not a chum to call your own,To hale you up by telephone,With, "Say, old man, I hope you're freeTo-night. Bring Mrs. Pope to tea.Let some one else lock up the pearlyGateway to-night and get here early!"IIIPerhaps you sometimes deem the CzarA star?With not a palm in all the landTo strike his fairly, hand to hand,With not a man in all the packTo fetch a hand against his backAnd cry, "Well met, Old Nick, come outAnd let us trot the kids about.Tut, man! you needn't look so pale,A red flag means an auction sale."IVI'll bet even Shakespeare's name was "Will,"UntilHe was so dead that he was great,For fame can only isolate.And better than "The Immortal Bard"Were "Hello, Bill," and "Howdy, pard!"Would he have swapped his comrades' laughterFor all the praise of ages after?

A SONG OF REST

I have sung the song of striving,Of the struggling, of arriving,Of making of one's self a horse and mounting him and driving!But now, let's cease;Let's look for peace.Let's forget the mark of money,Let's forget the love of fame.Life is ours and skies are sunny;What is worry but a name?Let's sit down and whiff and whittle,Let us loaf and laugh a little.(Here the youngest spoiled the rimeBy running to me for a dime.)I have sung the joy of doing,Of the pleasure of pursuing,And how life is like a woman and our role and rule is wooing,But now, O letUs cease to fret!Let us cease our vain desiring;Water's better than Cliquot;What is honor but perspiring?Wealth's another name for woe.Let us spread out in the clover,Just too lazy to turn over, —(Here my wife brought in the news:All the children need new shoes.)I have sung the song of action,Of the sweet of satisfactionOf pounding, pounding, pounding opposition to a fraction,But now, let's quit;Let's rest a bit.Money only makes us greedy,Life's success is but a taunt.He alone is never needyWho has learned to laugh at want.Let us loaf and laugh and wallow;Too much work to even swallow —(Here's the mail and bills are curses;I must try to sell these verses.)

DESIRE

Oh, the ripe, red apple which handily hungAnd flaunted and taunted and swayed and swung,Till it itched your fingers and tickled your tongue,For it was juicy and you were young!But you held your hands and you turned your head,And you thought of the switch which hung in the shed,And you didn't take it (or so you said),But tell me – didn't you want to?Oh, the rounded maiden who passed you by,Whose cheek was dimpled, whose glance was shy,But who looked at you out of the tail of her eye,And flirted her skirt just a trifle high!Oh, you were human and not sedate,But you thought of the narrow way and straight,And you didn't follow (or so you state),But tell me – didn't you want to?Oh, the golden chink and the sibilant signWhich sang of honey and love and wine,Of pleasure and power when the sun's a-shineAnd plenty and peace in the day's decline!Oh, the dream was schemed and the play was planned;You had nothing to do but to reach your hand,But you didn't (or so I understand),But tell me – didn't you want to?Oh, you wanted to, yes; and hence you crowThat the Want To within you found its foeWhich wanted you not to want to, and soYou were able to answer always "No."So you tell yourself you are pretty fine clayTo have tricked temptation and turned it away;But wait, my friend, for a different day!Wait till you want to want to!

THERE IS, OH, SO MUCH

There is oh, so much for a man to beIn nineteen hundred and now.He may cover the world like the searching seaIn nineteen hundred and now.He may be of the rush of the city's roarAnd his song may sing where the condors soar,Or may dip to the dark of Labrador,In nineteen hundred and now.There is oh, so much for a man to doIn nineteen hundred and now.He may sort the suns of Andromeda throughIn nineteen hundred and now.Or he may strive, as a good man must,For the wretch at his feet who licks the dust,And never learn how to be even justIn nineteen hundred and now.There is oh, so much for a man to learnIn nineteen hundred and now:The least and the most he should trouble to earnIn nineteen hundred and now,The message burned bright on the heavenly scroll,The little he needs that his stomach be whole,The vastness of vision to sate his soul,In nineteen hundred and now.There is oh, so much for a man to getIn nineteen hundred and now.He may drench the earth in vicarious sweatIn nineteen hundred and now.And his wealth may be but a lifelong itch,While the lowliest digger within his ditchMay have gained the little to make him richIn nineteen hundred and now.There is oh, so much for a man to tryIn nineteen hundred and now.The sea is so deep and the hill so highIn nineteen hundred and now.But sometimes we look at our little ballWhere the smallest is great and the greatest smallAnd wonder the why and the what of it allIn nineteen hundred and now.There is oh, so much, so we work as we mayIn nineteen hundred and now,And loiter a little along the wayIn nineteen hundred and now.O, the honeybee works, but the honeybee clingsTo the flowers of life and the honeybee sings!Let us eat the sweet and forget the stingsIn nineteen hundred and now!

HOW DID YOU DIE?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your wayWith a resolute heart and cheerful?Or hide your face from the light of dayWith a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,Or a trouble is what you make it,And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,But only how did you take it?You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?Come up with a smiling face.It's nothing against you to fall down flat,But to lie there – that's disgrace.The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;Be proud of your blackened eye!It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,It's how did you fight – and why?And though you be done to the death, what then?If you battled the best you could,If you played your part in the world of men,Why, the Critic will call it good.Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,And whether he's slow or spry,It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,But only how did you die?

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")

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(Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")