Poems for Pale People Part 1

Poems for Pale People.

by Edwin C. Ranck.

PREFACE

_This little volume was written for no reason on earth and with no earthly reason. It just simply happened, on the principle, I suppose that "murder will out." Murder is a bad thing and so are nonsense rhymes. There is often a valid excuse for murder; there is none for nonsense rhymes. They seem to be a necessary evil to be cla.s.sed with smallpox, chicken-pox, yellow fever and other irruptive diseases. They are also on the order of the boomerang and eventually rebound and inflict much suffering on the unlucky verse-slinger. So you see nonsense, like a little learning is a dangerous thing and should be handled with as much care as the shotgun which is never known to be loaded._

_A man who writes nonsense may become in time a big gun. But this is rare; more often he becomes a small bore. This appears paradoxical and will probably require thinking over, but the more you think it over the less you will understand. This is true of parlor magic. It is also true of the magazine poets. It really never pays to think. Thinking is too much like work. After reading these rhymes you will not think that the writer ever did think, which after all is the right way to think._

_When Dryden wrote "Alexander's Feast" he modestly stated that it was the grandest poem ever written. Mr. Dryden evidently believed this or he wouldn't have said so. But then every one did not agree with Mr.

Dryden. Now I am going one step further and will positively state that the writer of this volume is the greatest poetical genius who has not yet died in infancy._

_This is an astounding statement but it can be corroborated by admiring friends, for the writer is like a certain brand of children's food in that he is advertised by his loving friends._

_Speaking of "Alexander's Feast" it simply cannot be compared to any one of the finished, poetic gems in this collection because it is so utterly different. The difference is what made Dryden famous. But comparisons are odious, and Mr. Dryden has been dead several years._

_"But what," you may ask, "is the object of nonsense verse?" Most a.s.suredly to make one laugh. That masterpiece of nonsense "Alice In Wonderland" and its companion volume "Through The Looking Cla.s.s" are absurd books, but their very absurdity is what appeals to us most.

Their author, Mr. Lewis Carroll was, in private life a very sober gentleman (at least we hope so). Nonsense is the salt of life with which we season the dry food of everyday cooking._

_"A little nonsense now and then Is relished by the wisest men."_

_Even serious old Longfellow had this feeling in his bones when he wrote the immortal lines which all of us recall from childhood:_

_"There was a little girl And she had a little curl Which hung way down on her forehead; And when she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad, she was horrid."_

_This is nonsense pure and simple and even the most ardent admirers of Mr. Longfellow must, when they try to make "forehead" and "horrid"

rhyme, admit that it was very poor verse for the author of "Evangeline."_

_Bret Harte flew off at a tangent when he wrote about "Ah Sin, The Chinaman," a nonsense poem that gave "Bill Nye" his pseudonym. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote "The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay." Rudyard Kipling is often "caught with the goods on him" and Mark Twain wrote an "Ode to Stephen Dowling Botts."_

_And Great Scott! I almost forgot that even such a gentle, domestic creature as the cow has been the unconscious inspiration of much nonsense and has doubtless often chewed the bitter cud of reflection in deploring her undesired popularity. First she was forced (very much against her will, no doubt) to jump over the moon to the undignified strains of "Hey Diddle, Diddle." Then, just when beginning to breathe easily again after that astounding performance, Gelett Burgess came along and gave her more notoriety by raising the question as to whether there was such a thing as a "purple cow." And even today in many of the rural districts there are old farmers who never heard of Burgess and his "purple cow" who will tell you solemnly that "there is a cow of a sort of purplish color." Which goes to prove that after all nonsense is only sense plus--NON._

The poems in this collection have appeared from time to time in The Kentucky Post, The Cincinnati Post, The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune, Humanity and The Valley Magazine.

WHY THE MOLE IS BLIND.

In days gone by, when cows could fly And goblins rode on bears; When fairies danced upon the green And giants moped in lairs, There lived alone upon a shelf A tinsie, winsie little elf.

Just when the stars came out at night And moonbeams filled the earth with light, Down from his perch this little elf Would jump and wander by himself.

He wore a pair of little wings Tied in their place by golden strings.

One day he took a kind of notion To take a trip upon the ocean.

He combed his hair and washed his face And put his little wings in place, Then from his shelf he softly stole And went to see his friend the mole Who gave to him a pea-green boat And guaranteed that it would float.

A funny thing about this boat 'Twas patterned from a ten-pound note.

The little elf was greatly pleased And laughed until he sneezed and sneezed; He launched his boat upon the sea And kicked his little heels in glee.

The mole looked on in glad surprise (For in those days all moles had eyes.) He shouted out a loud farewell As the little row-boat rose and fell.

The elf picked up a golden oar And soon lost sight of mole and sh.o.r.e.

The elf rowed out for quite a way And in the waves did sport and play, Until at length the sun sank low And then he thought it time to go.

Now just as luck would have it then A prowling sea gull left his den.

The savage sea gull loudly laughed To see an elf in such a craft, And swooping down upon the water He did a thing he hadn't oughter, For with his strong and st.u.r.dy beak He caused the boat to spring a leak.

He said he longed for a little change And the bank-note boat was just in range; The poor young elf gave one big holler Just as the sea gull made a swallow (And this is strange indeed to follow For a gull himself is just a swallow.)

The faithful mole heard this loud yell And rushed down to the sh.o.r.e pell-mell.

Alas, alas he was too late And saw his friend's unhappy fate; He groaned, and shrieked and tore his fur And raised an awful din and stir.

The sea gull heard this awful racket And seized the mole, just like a packet.

He carried him across the seas To teach the young gulls A B C's.

But the loving mole went blind with rage And they had to put him in a cage, And ever since that fatal night The moles have all been out of sight.

NOW THERE'S A c.o.o.n IN THE MOON.

There was once an eccentric old c.o.o.n, Who ate dynamite with a spoon, But when he got loaded The powder exploded-- And now there's a c.o.o.n in the moon.

THE COUNTY FAIR.

Oh, let's go out to the county fair And breathe the balmy country air, And whittle a stick and look at the hosses, Discuss the farmer's profit and losses.

We'll take a look at the country stock And drink some milk from a dairy crock; Look at the pigs and admire the chickens, And try to forget it's hot as the d.i.c.kens.

Forget there are any political rings Just think of the b.u.t.ter and eggs and things; So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare, And we'll all go out to the county fair.

O'DOWD OF THE JEFFERSON CLUB.