The Gourmet's Love-Song

HOW strange is Love: I am not one

Who Cupid's power belittles,

For Cupid 'tis who makes me shun

My customary victuals.

Of, Effie, since that painful scene

That left me broken-hearted,

My appetite, erstwhile so keen,

Has utterly departed.

My form, my friends observe with pain,

Is growing daily thinner.

Love only occupies the brain

That once could think of dinner.

Around me myriad waiters flit,

With meat and drink to ply men;

Alone, disconsolate, I sit,

And feed on thoughts of Hymen.

The kindly waiters hear my groan,

They strive to charm with curry;

They tempt me with a devilled bone --

I beg them not to worry.

Soup, whitebait, entrées, fricasees,

They bring me uninvited.

I need them not, for what are these

To one whose life is blighted?

They show me dishes rich and rare,

But ah! my pulse no joy stirs,

For savouries I've ceased to care,

I hate the thought of oysters.

They bring me roast, they bring me boiled,

But all in vain they woo me;

The waiters softly mutter, 'Foiled!'

The chef, poor man, looks gloomy.

So, Effie, turn that shell-like ear,

Nor to my sighing close it,

You cannot doubt that I'm sincere --

This ballad surely shows it.

No longer spurn the suit I press,

Respect my agitation,

Do change your mind, and answer, 'Yes',

And save me from starvation.

P.G. Wodehouse

Missed

THE sun in the heavens was beaming,

    The breeze bore an odour of hay,

My flannels were spotless and gleaming,

    My heart was unclouded and gay;

The ladies, all gaily apparelled,

    Sat round looking on at the match,

In the tree-tops the dicky-birds carolled,

    All was peace -- till I bungled that catch.

My attention the magic of summer

    Had lured from the game -- which was wrong.

The bee (that inveterate hummer)

    Was droning its favourite song.

I was tenderly dreaming of Clara

    (On her not a girl is a patch),

When, ah, horror! there soared through the air a

    Decidedly possible catch.

I heard in a stupor the bowler

    Emit a self-satisfied 'Ah!'

The small boys who sat on the roller

    Set up an expectant 'Hurrah!'

The batsman with grief from the wicket

    Himself had begun to detach --

And I uttered a groan and turned sick. It

    Was over. I'd buttered the catch.

O, ne'er, if I live to a million,

    Shall I feel such a terrible pang.

From the seats on the far-off pavilion

    A loud yell of ecstasy rang.

By the handful my hair (which is auburn)

    I tore with a wrench from my thatch,

And my heart was seared deep with a raw burn

    At the thought that I'd foozled that catch.

Ah, the bowler's low, querulous mutter

    Points loud, unforgettable scoff!

Oh, give me my driver and putter!

    Henceforward my game shall be golf.

If I'm asked to play cricket hereafter,

    I am wholly determined to scratch.

Life's void of all pleasure and laughter;

    I bungled the easiest catch.

P.G. Wodehouse

A Solitary Triumph

[Statistics show that the number of criminal women is considerably less in proportion than that of male criminals.]

OH, the progress of Woman has really been vast

    Since Civilization began.

She's usurped all the qualities which in the past

    Were reckoned peculiar to Man.

She can score with a bat, use a rod or a cue;

    Her tennis and golf are sublime.

Her aim with a gun is uncommonly true,

    But Man beats her hollow at crime.

The strings to her bow are both varied and quaint;

    There are maids who can work with the pen,

There are maids who can handle the palette and paint

    With a skill that's not given to men.

There are ladies who preach, lady doctors there are,

    MPs will be ladies in time,

And ladies, I hear, practise now at the Bar --

    But Man holds the record for crime.

So it's hey for the jemmy, and ho for the drill,

    And hurrah for the skeleton keys.

Oh, to burgle a house or to rifle a till!

    I am more than her equal at these.

She may beat me at home, she may beat me afield;

    In her way I admit she is prime.

But one palm at least I compel her to yield:

    I can give her a lesson in crime.

P.G. Wodehouse



The Rivals -- a Tale of the Smart Set

AT the epoch which I write of quite the smartest men in town

Were Marmaduke de Coucy and Adolphus Brummel-Brown;

They led the trend of fashion in the very highest set,

They were recognized authorities on form and etiquette.

If Marmaduke appeared in mauve, or didn't part his hair,

Then parted locks were obsolete and mauve the only wear.

And did Adolphus don pink shoes to gratify a whim,

Then everybody did the same. They always followed him.

Now, before this story opened, Mr Brummel-Brown had wooed

The lovely daughter of an Earl, the Lady Ermyntrude.

She'd accepted his proposal when upon his knees he fell.

But he didn't know de Courcy was in love with her as well.

And Marmaduke turned pale with rage; his silky locks he tore;

Regardless of his trousers' crease, he writhed upon the floor.

"A murrain on the dastard knave!" he muttered (which was rude).

"By Jove, I'll cut the rotter out, and win my Ermyntrude!'"

For many weeks he worked amain, but worked without success.

He got up several epigrams, dsplayed his taste in dress;

He let her win from him at Bridge, though skilful in the art;

But he only lost his money, he couldn't win her heart.

Then all at once a bright idea across his mind there shone:

"In every fellow's cupboard stands at least one skeleton.

I'll put detectives on to him -- for I have ample means --

And when they've caught him out, gadzooks! won't I just give him beans!"

He summoned private sleuth-hounds, and he put them on the trail.

He bade them watch Adolphus, and he urged them not to fail,

To spare no pains in finding out how Brummel-Brown had sinned.

The youngest slueth-hound tapped his nose, the oldest sleuth-hound grinned.

He waited for a week or so. They came with their report.

"We've got him, sir!" the sleuth-hound said. "To put the story short,

This very morning, sir," they said, "we copped the cove a treat.

He was eating hot potatoes from a barrow in the stret."

(Alas! the charge was but too true. Though free from other sins,

He always had a passion for potatoes in their skins.

He knew the taste was low and vile -- in short, a social crime,

But he chouldn't check the craving, and he yielded every time.)

The news delighted Marmaduke; he bounded in his glee.

He pressed into their itching palms four times their proper fee;

His eyes lit up with fell resolve; his heart with triumph stirred.

He called upon Adolphus, and told him what he'd heard.

"If this should get about, my lad, you'd look a little blue;

Society would cut you dead -- that's what they'd do to you.

But still I'll give you just one chance, and only one. Now, mark!

Give up the Lady Ermyntrude, and I will keep this dark."

Adolphus writhed, Adolphus raved, Adolphus had a fit,

But not a way could he discern of wriggling out of it.

He wrote a note to Ermyntrude to say farewell for aye,

And she got it by the early post upon the ensuing day.

But mark the sequel! Brummel-Brown, distraught, with riven heart,

Grew pale and melancholy, and preferred to mope apart.

And to dispel that leaden grief, which grips the soul and numbs,

He took to feverish midnight walks about the lower slums.

One night as he was roaming on his self-appointed beat,

He spied a furtive figure at a barrow in the street.

And his face next moment was divided by a grin:

It was Marmaduke de Coucy -- eating winkles with a pin!            [winkles: periwinkles or cockles]

The rest does not take long to tell. The reunited pair

Were married three weeks later at St Peter's, Eaton Square.

The presents were both numerous and costly, so they say,

And the bride looked very handsome, so declared the Press next day.

As for the wicked Marmaduke, he met a fitting fate:

He found it best to pack his boxes up and emigrate,

And, according to the rumours, is a present big-game shooting

In the unexplored and trackless wastes of Penge or Upper Tooting.

P.G. Wodehouse



The Pessimist

THEY tell me that the weather's fair,

    The day serene and balmy;

No more for rain need I prepare --

    No chilly blast shall harm me.

They prate of 'warmth', of 'gentle glows',

    They rave of how sublime it is;

I shake my head, as one who knows

    Just what the British climate is.

They say the trees are growing green,

    That flowers are in bloom,

That bees and butterflies are seen;

    They bid me quit my room.

My hat and boots to me they bear.

    They tell me what crime it is

To stay indoors; but I'm aware

    Just what the British climate is.

The tale they tell is just the same

    They told in days of yore.

I know the weather's deadly game --

    I've seen it played before.

I call it deadly: well, to those

    By nature such as I'm, it is.

One suffers much before one knows

    Just what the British climate is.

This is my fixed resolve -- to keep

    Thick clothing always handy,

Add extra blankets when I sleep,

    And not run short of brandy.

I wager we'll be having snow

    Before midsummer-time it is.

I'll take no risks. I chance to know

    Just what the British climate is.

P.G. Wodehouse

Poets' Corner - Home   |    The Other Pages

©1994-2020 Poets' Corner Editorial Staff, All Rights Reserved Worldwide