Now once upon a time the King of Astrakhan, at that,
Was sitting on his throne because his throne was where he sat;
And comfortably beside him, and magnificently stocked,
Was a lacquer liquor locker which a liquor lackey locked.

“My boy,” the King would often say with granulated voice,
“I think the 1640 is particularly choice.”
The boy would understand and so, endeavoring to please,
He’d try his luck at fitting several likely locker keys.

The King was always miuch annoyed because of this delay:
“See here, my lad, you’ve got to throw those other keys away.”
“This minute, Sire?” “This minute, sir!” And with a pox that pocked,
He cursed the keys which didn’t keep his liquor locker locked.

The lackey did as he was bid. Alackalasalack!
He threw them all so far away that no one threw them back.
A silly throw, as I can show, for he was simply shocked
To find he lacked the very one that left the liquor locked.

“O Sire, I’ve thrown them all away!” “Look here, my liquor lad!”
“It so befell I threw as well the one I wish I had.”
And since it was the kind of lock that isn’t quickly picked,
The lacquer liquid locker had the little lackey licked.

Unhappy page! In such a rage a king is hard to calm;
A butt or tun of ’51’s the proper kind of balm.
“I always liked my liquor locked, from brandy down to beer;
It might as well be lacquer now as liquor under here.”

Not magic of the magi nor the wisdom of the wise
Could either find the key again or ply where it applies.
The stricken King of Astrakhan soon sickened unto death,
Who tasted not of bitters but what most embittereth.

The little lackey lastly fell into a deep decline,
And evil over all the land to shrivel up the vine:
And now the only vintages of Astrakhan are crocked
In that lacquer liquor locker which a liquor lackey locked.

— David McCord

Martin Gardner wrote a poem called “Simplicity”:

.

He wrote, “No one can say my poem does not have a point.”

All teeth and claws, behold this little Jaguar!
A fit companion for the kind of Haguar.

— D.B. Wyndham Lewis

A Trick that everyone abhors
In Little Girls is slamming Doors.
A Wealthy Banker’s Little Daughter,
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to the Furious Sport.
She would deliberately go
And Slam the door like Billy-Ho!
To make her Uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild:
She was an aggravating child. …

It happened that a Marble Bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the Door this little Lamb
Had carefully prepared to Slam,
And Down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that!

Her funeral Sermon (which was long
And followed by a Sacred Song)
Mentioned her Virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her Vices too,
And showed the Dreadful End of One
Who goes and slams the door for Fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful Tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the Door.
— As often they had done before.

— Hilaire Belloc

Ho! Ho! Yes! Yes! It’s very all well,
You may drunk I am think, but I tell you I’m not,
I’m as sound as a fiddle and fit as a bell,
And stable quite ill to see what’s what.
I under do stand you surprise a got
When I headed my smear with gooseberry jam;
And I’ve swallowed, I grant, a beer of lot —
But I’m not so think as you drunk I am.

Can I liquor my stand? Why, yes, like hell!
I care not how many a tossed I’ve pot,
I shall stralk quite weight and not yutter an ell,
My feech will not spalter the least little jot:
If you knownly had own! — well, I gave him a dot,
And I said to him, ‘Sergeant, I’ll come like a lamb —
The floor it seems like a storm in a yacht,
But I’m not so think as you drunk I am.”

For example, to prove it I’ll tale you a tell —
I once knew a fellow named Apricot —
I’m sorry, I just chair over a fell —
A trifle — this chap, on a very day hot —
If I hadn’t consumed that last whisky of tot! —
As I said now, this fellow, called Abraham —
Ah? One more? Since it’s you! Just a do me will spot —
But I’m not so think as you drunk I am.

Envoi

So, Prince, you suggest I’ve bolted my shot?
Well, like what you say, and soul your damn!
I’m an upple litset by the talk you rot —
But I’m not so think as you drunk I am.

— J.C. Squire

From William Wordsworth, “Goody Blake and Harry Gill”:

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

From Charles Wesley, “On the Sight of a Corpse”:

Ah lovely appearance of Death!
What sight upon earth is so fair?
Not all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare.

From Richard Le Gallienne, “Beauty Accurst”:

The sleepy kine move round me in desire
And press their oozy lips upon my hair,
Toads kiss my feet and creatures of the mire,
The snails will leave their shells to watch me there.

From John Scott of Amwell, “To a Friend, Apprehensive of Declining Friendship”:

Too much in man’s imperfect state
Mistake produces useless pain.–
Methinks, of friendship’s frequent fate
I hear my Frogley’s voice complain.

From Isaac Watts, “On the Sudden Death of Mrs. Mary Peacock”:

Hark! she bids all her friends adieu;
Some angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue
Through liquid telescopes of tears.

In The Stuffed Owl, D. B. Wyndham Lewis quotes this anonymous verse:

I always knew what sort of weather
We were going to have,
For Cynthia never wore her feather
When the weather would be bad.

But when the days were warm and bright
Cynthia wore a feather,
Sometimes black and sometimes white,
The colour doesn’t count whatever.