Shapes of Clay

Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach,

With a him.

And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach,

On the limb;

Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking

And the dudelet is a-smoking

Cigarettes;

And the hackman is a-hacking

And the showman is a-cracking

Up his pets;

Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore

And the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er;

Yes, my poet,

Well we know it—

Know the spooners how they spoon

In the bright

Dollar light

Of the country tavern moon;

Yes, the caterpillars fall

From the trees (we know it all),

And with beetles all the shelves

Are alive.

Please unbuttonhole us—O,

Have the grace to let us go,

For we know

How you Summer poets thrive,

By the recapitulation

And insistent iteration

Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among

Ourselves!

So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss.

For you, poor human linnet,

There's a half a living in it,

But there's not a copper cent in it for us!