i.m. Henry Pussycat

The gals is angrier, it's all the rage,
& boys am angriest, & selfisher,
& sans that do-re-mi
you won't be bacon on no Sunshine Stage
besides hotels. --You done blanch ornerier,
Mr. Bones, that is fo sho!

& rust was spoken, up the wheels,
& baby birds, plebeian mighty low,
& golden bowls, be broken too,
til Slocum Henry tired of all them spiels.
He feed his sheepdog nag a whackeroo,
& sets off, awful slow,

& heftin his heavy northern pikebone stingray,
goes on, his merry all post-humorous way.

Henry Gould | Island Road 20
Contents | Mudlark No. 6