SHINGLE-SHORT
It’s ate my supper, stole my sleep,
Spoilt my umbrella, hurt a hen,
Stuff’d me to split with pride—an’ then,
Oh, yes! I’ve just misunderstood,
As usual! Got things back before,
Been on the booze inside my brain,
Just as per usual—nothin’ more!
—Well! now my eyes is back again.
I thought you was A.1.—You’re not!
You’re just a naked bit o’ rot!
I thought you was a Ship.—You’re wood,
Stuff’d full o’ foolin’. You’re No Good!
If other ships was sneerin’ sort,
Reckon they’d call you “Shingle-Short.”
Ay! that’s where all the sickness lies.
It is’n’t you what’s wrong, it’s me.
I’m glad o’ that; contrariwise,
Sorry! for where’s your remedy?
It ain’t the wood, it ain’t the tools,
Has doom’d you deep among the fools,
Nor ’tain’t the details:—’twas the plan;
Which means, All fire it! ’twas the man.
Made a nice milkin’ stool, you could,
If on’y I’d ha’ seen it; yes,—
An’ any other feller would.
“Never too late to mend”? I guess
You’re just about the same as me:
Thirty-odd years too late to mend—
I can’t remake your maker, friend,
25
