Shapes of Clay

Come in, old gentleman. How do you do?

Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called.

I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you

Are a pleasant-appearing person, too,

With a head agreeably bald.

That's right—sit down in the scuttle of coal

And put up your feet in a chair.

It is better to have them there:

And I've always said that a hat of lead,

Such as I see you wear,

Was a better hat than a hat of glass.

And your boots of brass

Are a natural kind of boots, I swear.

"May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?"

Why, certainly, man, why not?

I rather expected you'd do it before,

When I saw you poking it in at the door.

It's dev'lish hot—

The weather, I mean. "You are twins"?

Why, that was evident at the start,

From the way that you paint your head

In stripes of purple and red,

With dots of yellow.

That proves you a fellow

With a love of legitimate art.

"You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"?

That's very sad,

But Longfellow's words I beg to recall:

Your lot is the common lot of all.

"Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"?

That, I fancy, is just as you please.

Some think that way and others hold

The opposite view;

I never quite knew,

For the matter o' that,

When everything's been said—

May I offer this mat

If you will stand on your head?

I suppose I look to be upside down

From your present point of view.

It's a giddy old world, from king to clown,

And a topsy-turvy, too.

But, worthy and now uninverted old man,

You're built, at least, on a normal plan

If ever a truth I spoke.

Smoke?

Your air and conversation

Are a liberal education,

And your clothes, including the metal hat

And the brazen boots—what's that?

"You never could stomach a Democrat

Since General Jackson ran?

You're another sort, but you predict

That your party'll get consummately licked?"

Good God! what a queer old man!