Ode To A Housefly

E

ebsi2001

Explorer
May 2, 2006
301
0
southern NJ
ODE TO A HOUSEFLY
Philosophical Ruminations on a Beastie in the Booze

Oh, hail to thee, tiny insect so small,
Swimming around in my bourbon highball.
Back-stroking, breast-stroking, movement of wing,
Now up on the ice cube, poor cold little thing.

If you stay there too long, you'll find with remorse,
Your ankles will numb and your buzz will get hoarse.
Catching cold is unpleasant for all little flies,
Bloodshot is gruesome for multiprism eyes.

Some people hate flies, take my old Cousin Sam,
He gets in a snit when you sit in his jam.
I've seen sister Sally turn red as a beet
When you walk on her nose with your six sticky feet.

When you walk on the ceiling, your brow seems to frown,
Does blood go to your head, when you stand upside down?
My optometrist friend, a dear boy named Rex,
Makes bifocals for flies - he calls them fly specs.

Now you're coughing because you are so full of trouble,
Or is it the bourbon that's making you bubble?
You should get off the ice, the temperature's minus,
You'll get frost in your navel and a wee touch of sinus.

Percy Dovetonsils​
 
Jerseyman

Jerseyman

Piney
Sep 10, 2003
1,377
426
West New Jersey
www.jerseyman-historynowandthen.blogspot.com
Ebsi:

Quite the piece of doggerel!!

How about something a little closer to home called "That Vincentown Train" written by Joe Bryan, Esq. in 1889:

That Vincentown Train

Did you ever ride on that Vincentown train,
No! Well, I cannot refrain, and so I'll explain
How we go out and come in on that Vincentown train.
The first thing in the morning, just as the day's dawning.
And when you arrive at the depot, a yawning.
You'll find not a man. Oh, but the smell of "guano,"
Would lead you to think they had all gone to farming.

There's not a nation with such a sweet scented station
I do not believe, in the whole world's creation,
And the best antidote for it would be, "cremation."
When you enter the car you will find there's not enough fire,
To warm a respectable liar,
That is, if it's cold, and for people that's old, and robbed by the railroads,
This is certainly bold.

Ther's a nice little room in the rear of the car,
For the mop and broom, and to smoke a cigar, where passengers sit,
And sometimes exchange wit,
But when calves are thrown in there, they don't like it a bit,
For the stench that arises can be smelled from afar,
And lays clear over a pipe or cigar.

Then they load in a dog, a two hundred pound hog, in a box,
And the smell would stifle an ox, or stop a gold lever watch.
But time is now up; some one shouts out, "all right,"
"No, hold on," says the brakeman, "the conductor's in sight."
But when he arrives, and is ready to start, he sings out,
"Hold on, here comes a milk cart."

We know the conductor's a good natured man,
So we sink back in our seat, while they dance the "can-can."
Once more "right there," yes, "right here," now we start.
Whiz: Pop: there the train is once more apart,
The air brake is off, and they've broke the connection.
And we sit down once more for quiet reflection.

An old lady get worried and calls in the brakeman,
Who, by the way, is a wide-awake man.
And she say, "Mr. Conductor, why don't the train start."
"Law's-a-massey, I won't make Holly, till dark."
"We'll get there," he says, no one was ever knowed to be hurt or get left,
On this nice little road, for we travel a gait that railroaders call slow.

The connection is made, "go ahead," now we're off in this cute little car,
That's as snug as a coffin.
By this time the car has been getting much warmer, and the conductor sings
Out "stop at Butterworth's Corner, Chair Station, Haines' Lane, Burnt House,
And at Smalley's," and they stop at all houses, cross-roads and alleys.
And this is the way we go out, on that Vincentown train.
But its nobody's fault and so nobody's to blame.

There are machinists who ride and for full distance pay,
But get out by the roadside and walk half the way, for the train goes up
To Birmingham town, and takes passengers two miles up, to bring them one down.
Which makes them lose just a quarter of a day, and while it raises their muscles, it lowers their pay,
But they're bound to run up there, to make the connection,
Although the whole neighborhood, makes an objection,
And it's useless to try to break or to mar the "monopoly," slate of the P.R.R.

On our road home, one night, on the Ewanville platform,
There stood an old fellow, with rather a flat form,
And a passenger stepped up to him, called him by name,
Said he, "Pat have you seen the Vincentown train?"
"Sure, it's meself, that's been wait'n two hours, begorra,
And they say the blame thing's clare up to Kinkora, and if she don't get
Stuck in the snow she'll be back tomorrow."
Then we go in the station and sit there and wait,
From half past six, till quarter to eight.
For our farmers sometimes go on to New York and the train waits
at Kinkora, Until they hear from their pork.

Hark, here she comes, now we'll soon be aboard,
And get something to eat and to drink, thank the Lord.
Now in backward we go, and the headlight's put out,
For we run every night in the dark on this route.
And this Vicentown train, takes both penny and cake,
For, instead of a railroad, its just a mere fake.
And over this road you toss and tumble,
And a new order is out, you shan't carry a bundle.

Best regards,
Jerseyman
 
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