THERE is a fellow across the way Who plays the banjo night and day, And all you ever hear him play, Is plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk. He plays along with might and main, Be it foul or fair, be it snow or rain, And, oh! it is that constant strain, That plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk. You sit here in your room and swear, But he can't hear, nor does he care, Only goes on playing that same old air, The plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk. It is his hope that some fine day On the Banjo Club they'll let him play, But he won't if we have aught to say, With his plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BRONX, 1818 by JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE ORANGE BUDS BY MAIL FROM FLORIDA by WALT WHITMAN THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD THE MARCHING FEET by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT THE MANCIPLE'S PROLOGUE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |