SHINGLE-SHORT
I know ’em! Belly, back, an’ soul,
I get their plan complete an’ whole,
An’ all their makin’ clear in view,
An’ all their matter in control,—
Then, Whiff! I dunno how it is,
But there my vantage comes to cease;
Don’ seem to matter what I do,
All o’ my cream churns out to grease—
My whoppers all works out askew.
Them smithereens comes nicely through.
No! ’tain’t no sort o’ use to shirk—
Somehow, this Power o’ mine don’t work.
Dunno the reason; that can slide—
No, it don’t ack; an’ what’s the worst,
Won’t, never. No! I’m certified
Certain o’ that. I can’t pretend
“Hold on! you haven’t seen the end;
This Ugly Ducklin’s bound to burst
Out into Swan.” Not it, worse luck!
It’s grow’d too far towards Ugly Duck.
No! I can fence this little lot—
This way: I am, an’ yet I’m not!
Can’t run to nothin’ clear an’ clean,
But just keep ditherin’ in between;
At once Too-Little, an’ Too-Much:
You can’t do any good with such.
Like this old iron-sand hereabout,
Too married up with mucky sand
To pay to get the iron out;
Or, like that jolly knife I ground,
An’ put no water on the stone;—
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