O Peary! With the scorchin’ summer here
And everybody payin’ double price
For little weeny, teeny bits of ice,
It dost no longer seem so very queer
That thou shouldst have the bravery to steer
Thy ship up North where it is cool and nice.
I’ll bet you smile whilst thinkin’ thou hast twice
The fun we’re havin’ at this time of year.

And, say! old boy, since thou dost understand
The pole is an imaginary spot,
Why not “imagine” thou hast found it and
Of time and trouble save an awful lot?
Couldst others track thee to that frozen land
And prove thou didst not find it? I guess not!

Thoughts Thought Whilst Thinkin’ of a Thanksgivin’ Day Turkey

O Eagle! emblem of my country, thou,
Who art the boss of every other bird,
My muse, to find the highfalutin word
With which to name thee, dost not know just how.
Yet ’tis not thee who hast, I must allow,
My patriotic breast the deepest stirred,
And they who planned our country’s banner erred
In makin’ thee the sign to which we bow.

For whilst, O Eagle, thou dost dare to climb
The highest mountain peak and greet the sun,
It is the turkey that dost nearest rhyme
With all the lofty thrills that through us run;
He beats thee to a standstill every time,
For, stuffed and roasted – say! he takes the bun!

Sonnet Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ of My Sister Maymie’s Homely Beau

O Love! ’Tis saidst that thou art blind. Alas!
I didst not think that it wast truly so
Until I saw my sister Maymie’s beau
Who’s awful stingy and as green as grass!
How love canst make such guys as he is pass
For something beautiful, I dost not know.
Hadst I my way, you bet! he’d stand no show
Of settin’ in our parlor wastin’ gas.

He steals things, too! Last night whilst in a nook
Of our dark hall I heardst him say: “Alack!
I must steal one!” This morn I went’st to look
And found’st all our umbrellas in the rack,
And so I guess whatever ’twast he took,
My sister Maymie madest him give it back.

Lines Wrote Whilst Recovering from an Accident Caused by a Hornet

O Hornet! When I think’st what thou canst do
To make strong men just hump themselves and run,
Men who wouldst boldly face a ten-inch gun
But lack the “sand” to halt whilst you pursue,
And deem’st thy stinger something they wouldst rue,
I’ve wondered if, when things that weigh a ton
Flee from thy wrath, thou dost not deem it fun
To chase folks that are so much bigger ’n you.

Didst I accordin’ to my size possess
The means for gettin’ even thou dost own,
’Twouldst be great sport to tackle – well, I guess! —
A boy ’most any size, and hear him moan
As I didst when thou gavest me that caress
From something hotter than the torrid zone!