A Poor Joke
‘NO, you can’t count me in, boys; I’m off it—
I’m jack of them practical jokes;
They give neither pleasure nor profit,
And the fellers that plays them are mokes.
I’ve got sense, though I once was a duffer,
And I fooled up my share, I allow,
But since conscience has made me to suffer—
She’s pegging away at me now.
You notice I’ve aged rather early,
And the wrinkles are deep on my face?
That’s sorrer—I’m sixty-nine, barely.
Jes’ camp, and I’ll tell you my case.
It was here on The Springs, we had hit it,
And we working the lead on this spot—
And we were, to my shame I admit it,
A rather unprincipled lot.
‘We were drunk all the day on the Sundays—
No wickeder habit exists;
And our exercise mostly on Mondays
Was feats of endurance with fists.
See, the wash wasn’t what we’d call wealthy—
Ten pennyweight stuff, thereabout—
And we took matters easy and healthy;
Now we’d rush for the same, I’ve no doubt.
‘Well, one morning, from over the border
Two Mongols moved inter the camp,
Which we voted a thing out of order—
The climate for Chows was too damp.
But it happened a couple of troopers
Arrived on The Springs that same week,
So the Chinks, in their opium stupors,
Didn’t wander down inter the creek,
‘Or get drowned in the dam at The Crescent,
As we reckoned might happen somehow;
But they settled down, easy and pleasant,
And there wasn’t the smell of a row.
Howsomever, we weren’t long twigging
The Chows were an ignerent pair,
And knew nothin’ at all about digging
And that was our chance to get square.
‘It was ’cording to Bastow’s directions,
Though I volunteered for the game,
To ensnare their Mongolian affections,
And lay them right on to a claim
Round the bend where we’d bottomed a duffer—
[...] Read more
poem by Edward George Dyson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
