Querulous Quatrains

The worst about the summer, I should say, Is not the heat that melts us day by day, But rather is the jokes that come along And seek in vain to force us to be gay.

Ah, true, I know the soda fountain clerk Doth sell sweet air with nimble toss and jerk, And yet one cannot always laugh at him; In truth, his is an honest piece of work.

The quip about the maiden by the sea Who wears abbreviate garb in glee But proves, what jokes repeatedly have claimed, That many do not go to sea, but see.

The jest about the iceman and his price And how he sells a damp spot for a slice Is ancient, stale and deucedly passe; Oh, would that they would put it on the ice!

The mercury, I know, will gayly rise Until it knocketh at the brazen skies Yet it will not record the heat I feel At reading of the ants in picnic pies

One other from which for relief I sue Is that with which the jokers ne'er get through - That warmth increasing chestnut on the man Who murmurs, "Is it hot enough for you?"

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, At Murphy's farm or Hotel Get-the-mun, The jokesters sadly pen these five old things To prove there's nothing new beneath the sun!

- Baltimore American.