I MUST complain, Wah Kee. Your brand of hop Has bran mixed in, or seconds, or yen shee— There's something wrong with it—I know, because Some frightful, hideous visions visit me. For instance, as I came along Fifth Avenue I met no less a man than Governor Hughes, With a baked flounder tied among his whiskers, and Nibbling a bomb, with ice cream on the fuse. He smiled upon me, and put out his hand Just full of quinces, while his purple feet Were playing concertinas, and his ears Had awnings on them to fend off the heat. Half a block farther, to my vast surprise, I saw George Stallings. On his shins he wore A straight front corset, trimmed with apple pies, And on his chin a buttercake he bore. "Why are you here?" said I. "Methought the game Was down in Washington.' "Ah no," he cried, "There is no ball game, for my men have gone Upon a pink-faced crocodile to ride!" Blue hedgehogs, wearing new Directoire gowns— Green song and dance men, warships made of coke— And light mauve Senators, with tatting sox— I say, Wah Kee, your hop's unfit to smoke! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD BRIDGE by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER UNCLE AN' AUNT by WILLIAM BARNES |