Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SONG OF THE SEASON, by ANONYMOUS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SONG OF THE SEASON, by                    
First Line: I am a moth ball
Last Line: But out!
Subject(s): Animals;environment;insects;moths; Environmental Protection;ecology;conservation;bugs


I AM a moth ball
And (literally)
There are no flies on me
Or any insect life at all.
The wicked flea,
The rambunctious roach,
And the exuberant bug
All view me with reproach
And promptly lug
Themselves over to the next flat.
And moths
In cloths?
Well, I stand pat
And they go almost anywhere
Else and stay there.
All summer long I live
Done up in wool and furs
And overcoats and winter wear
That are his or hers;
And all that time I give
Myself assiduously to making things smell
And never say a word —
And, well,
Say,
Do I get there?
And then there comes a day
When my environment is bestirred
And I emerge from my lair,
I and this odor I have a patent on —
And it isn't sweet violet
Or heliotrope or mignonette,
You bet!
It's a sort of gone
Last rose of summer scent
That wasn't really meant
In the first place
To please the animal race
Or any one else regardless
Of creed, color or previous condition of servitude;
But just to brood
And send out a ball-bearing, multiple horsepower
Smelliness
That can do more in an hour
To make itself known
Than a presidential candidate
Can in a lifetime
Working early and late.
For one small dime
I can show more scents
At less expense
And more strength
At greater length
Than anything you ever saw.
And can you lose me?
Naw!
I come forth gay and free
Over musk or patchouli
Or ylang-ylang or night-blooming cereus
Or jockey club or any other odorous
Preparation that any one ever did ring
The changes on for money or love.
And when I sing
My voice sounds above
All the rest, because I keep to the bass clef
And warble fff.
I am a moth ball
And I have the call
At this time of the year;
And if you don't like the perfume
When I loom
Up in a car or theatre or drawing room
Or other place and begin to shout,
There is nowhere to go —
And the poet once told us so —
But out!





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