Though no great catch, this man was caught,
And neighbors tell, I’m told,
That oft, with scratch, his face was scraught,
Till fearful yells he yold.
In sink of sadness almost sunk,
To quit all strife he strove —
And after he a think had thunk,
A happier life he love.
To steal a kiss, no more he stole;
To make a break, he broke;
To remedy the deal he’d dole,
A secret sneak he snoke.
Fate’s dice with crafty shake he shook;
As gamblers feel he felt;
But ere the final stake he stook
A bitter squeal he squelt.
Of earlier days, I think, he thought,
Ere Hymen’s bonds had bound —
Before his links were firmly lought —
When he by blond was blound.
A stroke for liberty he struck;
For in a fly he flew —
But though full many a joke he juck,
A secret cry he crew.
Then stings of conscience no more stung,
And so in peace he slept;
For, on the wings of Morpheus brung,
In Paradise he pept.
— George B. Moregood, Puck, Oct. 2, 1912