Books all about them ancient blokes
That lived a thousand years ago:
Philosophers an' funny folks.
What he sees in them I don't know.
There ain't much fun, when all is said.
In chaps' that is so awful dead.
He put his book down when I came,
He took his specs off, patient-like.
He's been in Rome; an' who can blame
The old man if he gets the spike
To be jerked back so suddenly
By some glum-lookin' coot like me.
At first he looks at me quite dazed,
As tho' 'twas hard to recognize
The silly fool at which he gazed;
An' then a smile come in his eyes:
"Why, Jim," he says. "Still feelin' blue?
Kiss her, an' laugh!" … But I says, "Who?"
"Why, who, if not the widow, lad?"
But I says, "Widows ain't no go."
"What woman, then, makes you so sad?"
I coughs a bit an' says, "Dunno."
He looked at me, then old Bob Blair
He ran his fingers through his hair.
