Franklin Pierce Adams

Will you read my little pome, O you girls returnèd home From a summertime of sport At the Jolliest Resort, From a Heated Term of joys Far from urban dust and noise? You I speak to in this rhyme, You have had a Glorious Time Swimming, golfing, bridging, dancing, Riding, tennising, romancing, On the springboard, on the raft— You’ve been often photographed. At the place you have forsaken, You have had some pictures taken, Pictures taken of you dancing, Riding, tennising, romancing, Swimming, golfing, and reclining; Snacking, luncheoning, and dining. Cometh now my brief advice; Ladies, be ye ne’er so nice, Be ye ne’er so fascinating, Luring, drawing, captivating, If with interest you’d imbue us, Do not show those pictures to us! Snapshots of the links and lawn Cause in many of us a yawn; (As for me myself, why, I’m Glad to see ’em any time) But—I give it to you square— Lots of people do not care.

Tell me not in mormonful numbers “Life is but an empty dream!” To a student of the slumbers Things are never what they seem. Life is yearning and suppression; Life is that to be enjoyed; Puritanical discretion Was not spoke by Dr. Freud. Deep enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to dream, that each to-morrow Finds us Freudier than to-day. Sleep is long, and dreams are straying, And our hearts, though they may falter, Still, like sexiphones, are playing Wedding marches to the altar. In the universal battle, In the seraglio of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle— Beat your husband—or your wife. Trust no dame, however pleasant! Leave the dead ones on the shelf! Act—act in the living present! Nothing matters but Yourself. Wives of great men all remind us We can make our lives a serial, And, departing, leave behind us Biographical material. Stories that perhaps another Sailing o’er life’s Freudian sea— A forlorn and dream-racked brother— Reading, might say, “How like me!” Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any mate; Now eluding, nor pursuing, Learn to individuate.

(With the usual.) I In winter I get up at night, And dress by an electric light. In summer, autumn, ay, and spring, I have to do the self-same thing. I have to go to bed and hear Pianos pounding in my ear, And hear the janitor cavort With garbage cans within the court. And does it not seem hard to you That I should have these things to do? Is it not hard for us Manhat- Tan children in a stuffy flat? II It is very nice to think The world is full of food and drink; But, oh, my father says to me They cost all of his salaree. III When I am grown to man’s estate I shall be very proud and great; E’en now I have no reverence, ’Cause I read comic supplements. IV New York is so full of a number of kids I’m sure pretty soon we shall be invalids. V A child should always say what’s true, And speak when he is spoken to; And then, when manhood’s age he strikes, He may be boorish as he likes.

Sullen, grimy, labouring person, As I passed you in my car, I could sense your muffled curse on It and me and my cigar; And though mute your malediction, I could feel it on my head, As in countless works of fiction I have read. Envy of mine obvious leisure Seemed to green your glittering eye; Hate for mine apparent pleasure Filled you as I motored by. You who had to dig for three, four Hours in that unpleasant ditch, Loathed, despised, and hated me for Being rich. And you cursed me into Hades As you envied me that ride With the loveliest of ladies Sitting at my dexter side; And your wish, or your idea, Was to hurl us off some cliff. I could see that you thought me a Lucky stiff. If you came to the decision, As my car you mutely cussed, That allottment and division Are indecently unjust— Labouring man, however came you Thus to think the world awry, I should be the last to blame you … So do I.

We don’t get any too much light; It’s pretty noisy, too, at that; The folks next door stay up all night; There’s but one closet in the flat; The rent we pay is far from low; Our flat is small and in the rear; But we have looked around, and so We think we’ll stay another year. Our dining-room is pretty dark; Our kitchen’s hot and very small; The “view” we get of Central Park We really do not get at all. The ceiling cracks and crumbles down Upon me while I’m working here— But, after combing all the town, We think we’ll stay another year. We are not “handy” to the sub; Our hall-boy service is a joke; Our janitor’s a foreign dub Who never does a thing but smoke; Our landlord says he will not cut A cent from rent already dear; And so we sought for better—but We think we’ll stay another year.

My desk is cleared of the litter of ages; Before me glitter the fair white pages; My fountain pen is clean and filled, And the noise of the office has long been stilled. Roget’s Thesaurus is at my hand, And I’m ready to do some work that’s grand, Dignified, eminent, great, momentous, Memorable, worthy of note, portentous, Beautiful, paramount, vital, prime, Stirring, eventful, august, sublime. For this is the way, I have read and heard, That authors look for the fitting word. All of the proud ingredients mine To build, like Marlowe, the mighty line. But never a line from my new-filled pen That couldn’t be done by a child of ten. Oh, how did Shelley and how did Keats Weave magic words on the fair white sheets Under conditions that, were they mine, I couldn’t bear? And I’d just resign. Yet Milton wrote passable literature Under conditions I couldn’t endure. Coleridge and Chatterton did their stuff Over a road that I’d christen rough. Wordsworth and—soft!—could it be that they Waited until they had something to say?

These are the saddest of possible words: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds, Tinker and Evers and Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double— Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb. Else fandom shouteth: “Who said you could play? Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!” Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job. Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom’s ire Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight. Or in or out, or haply up or down, To puzzle him that standeth by the plate, To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renoun: Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown, So pitch that every man can but admire And offer you the freedom of the town— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds! The tumult and the shouting from the throats Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats. A mighty cheer that possibly denotes That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire; Or, as H. James would say, We’ve got their goats— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of a pennant. O the hope, The tenuous hope, the hope that’s half a fear, The lengthy season and the boundless dope, And the bromidic; “Wait until next year.” O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear, O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher That next October it shall flutter here: This is the end of every fan’s desire. ENVOY Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase Be that to which most fondly we aspire! For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race— THIS is the end of every fan’s desire.