I know they call me Paul Pry, say I’m fussy and pragmatical—
But that’s because sheer moonshine always hates the mathematical.
I’m not content to “play the King” with an imperial pose in it—
Whatever is marked “Private” I shall up and poke my nose in it.
ALL.
He won’t let drowsing dogs
lie, he’ll stir up the tabby sleeping Tom—
In fact, he is the model of a modern German
Peeping Tom!
I bounce into the Ball-Room when they
think I’m fast asleep at home,
And measure steps and skirts and things
and mark what state folks keep
at home;
Watch the toilette of young Beauty on
the very strictest Q.T. too,
Evangelise the Army and keep sentries
to their duty, too,
On the Navy, and the Clergy, and the Schools,
my wise eyes shoot lights,
Sir.
I’m awfully particular to regulate
the footlights, Sir.
I preach sermons to my soldiers and arrange
their “duds” and duels, too,
And tallow their poor noses, when they’ve
colds, and mix their gruels,
too;
I’ll make everybody moral, and obedient,
and frugal, Sir—
In fact I’m an Imperial edition
of MCDOUGALL, Sir!
ALL.
He’d compel us to drink water and
restrain us when to wed agog;
In fact he is the model of a Modern German
pedagogue.
I’ve all the god-like attributes, omniscient, ubiquitous, I mean to squelch free impulse, which is commonly iniquitous. But what’s the good of being Chief Inspector of the Universe, And prying into everything from pompous Law to puny verse, If everything or nearly so, shows a confounded tendency To go right of its own accord? My Masterful Resplendency Would radiate aurorally, a world would gaze on trustingly If only things in general wouldn’t go on so disgustingly. Where is the pull of being Earth’s Inspector autocratical, When the Progress I’d be motor of seems mainly automatical?
ALL.
Hooray! My would-be Jupiter, a parvenu
is told again
He’s not the true Olympian, Jack-in-the-Box
is “Sold Again!!!”
* * * * *
“ARTIFICIAL OYSTER-CULTIVATION,” read Mrs. R., as the heading of a par in the Times. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed, “who on earth would ever think of eating ‘artificial oysters!’”
* * * * *
NOTHING is certain in this life except Death, Quarter Day and stoppage for ten minutes at Swindon Station.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SO CONVENIENT!
Young Wife. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING, REGGIE DEAR?”
Reggie Dear. “ONLY TO THE CLUB, MY DARLING.”
Young Wife. “OH, I DON’T MIND THAT, BECAUSE THERE’S A TELEPHONE THERE, AND I CAN TALK TO YOU THROUGH IT, CAN’T I?”