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Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!
Wherever they can come With clankum and blankum 'Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation, With fun, jeering Conjuring Sky-staring, Loungering, And still to the tune of Transmogrification-- Those muttering Spluttering Ventriloquogusty Poets With no Hats Or Hats that are rusty. They're my Torment and Curse And harass me worse And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow Than the Screech of the Owl Or the witch-wolf's long howl, Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog's inward Bow wow For me they all spite--an unfortunate Wight. And the very first moment that I came to Light A Rascal call'd Voss the more to his scandal, Turn'd me into a sickle with never a handle. A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came, The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name-- `Ho! What's in the wind?' 'Tis the voice of a Wizzard! I saw him look at me most terribly blue ! He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard, And soon as he'd found them made no more ado But chang'd me at once to a little Canoe. From this strange Enchantment uncharm'd by degrees I began to take courage & hop'd for some Ease, When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti Past by--& intending no doubt to be witty, Because I'd th' ill-fortune his taste to displease, He turn'd up his nose, And in pitiful Prose Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese. Well, a night or two past--it was wind, rain & hail-- And I ventur'd abroad in a thick Cloak & veil-- But the very first Evening he saw me again The last mentioned Ruffian popp'd out of his Den-- I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle I fancy the sight of me turn'd his Brains addle-- For what was I now? A complete Barley-mow And when I climb'd higher he made a long leg, And chang'd me at once to an Ostrich's Egg-- But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon, I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon. Yet my heart is still fluttering-- For I heard the Rogue muttering-- He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud And wish'd from his heart nine Nine-pins to see In brightness & size just proportion'd to me. So I fear'd from my soul, That he'd make me a Bowl, But in spite of his spite This was more than his might And still Heaven be prais'd! in contempt of the Loon I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon. Unsatisfied? Search for more:Other Cool Sites:Hot Arts & Stage NewsLyrics Catalogue Sound Tracks Guide Guide to Serials and Shows English Subtitles For DivX Movies Hundreds of Cooking Recipes Over 5000 Cocktails Recipes Cool Online Encyclopedia Cellulars Descriptions and Reviews Algorithms Dictionary Funny Jokes and Anecdotes. Usenet Newsgroups Reader |