AN IRISHMAN named Goldstein, Who had much boxing skill, Signed one day with a polo club, Then climbed the pitching hill. He made a Turkish wrestler Shout loudly "Pung" and "Chow," Then drew three cards, which quickly put The chess game in a row— He beat all diving records, Then kicked goal. Poor wretch, Just as the foursome started, His horse fell in the stretch! The rookie chased the flying ball, And crashed against the stand— He bounded off without a bruise— Now isn't Nature grand? The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The bootleg peddler comes upon the scene, And brings some awful junk to you and me! Ashes to ashes, And dust to dust— If the touts do not sting you, The mutuels must. Of all the stories ever told, The one that's most in mind Is that about crude oil—but then— You see, that's not refined! 'Tis strange the ball park hot dog By reformers is not cursed— For of all the foods of summer, The hot dog is the wurst! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS TO A PORTRAIT by ARTHUR WILLIAM SYMONS HAPPINESS THROUGH THE YEAR by J. MARGARET CRUTE ASHCRAFT BRUCE: JAMES OF DOUGLAS by JOHN BARBOUR ABRAHAM by JOHN STUART BLACKIE A SUNRISE IN MARCH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |