Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many

"Don't Buy a Pig in a Poke."

 
Unscrupulous Pigmongers will
Attempt to wheedle and to coax
The ignorant young housewife till
She purchases her pigs in pokes;
Beasts that have got a Lurid Past,
Or else are far Too Good to Last.
 
 
So, should you not desire to be
The victim of a cruel hoax,
Then promise me, ah! promise me,
You will not purchase pigs in pokes!
('Twould be an error just as big
To poke your purchase in a pig.)
 
 
Too well I know the bitter cost,
To turn this subject off with jokes;
How many a fortune has been lost
By men who purchased pigs in pokes.
(Ah! think on such when you would talk
With mouths that are replete with pork!)
 
 
And, after dinner, round the fire,
Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee,
Implore your bored but patient sire
To tell you what a Poke may be.
The fact he might disclose to you —
Which is far more than I can do.
 

* * * * * * *

 
The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes
Is not to make your choice too quick.
In purchasing a Book of Jokes,
Pray poke around and take your pick.
Who knows how rich a mental meal
The covers of this book conceal?
 

"Learn to Take Things Easily."

 
To these few words, it seems to me,
A wealth of sound instruction clings;
O Learn to Take things easily —
Espeshly Other People's Things;
And Time will make your fingers deft
At what is known as Petty Theft.
 
 
Your precious moments do not waste;
Take Ev'rything that isn't tied!
Who knows but you may have a Taste,
A Gift perhaps, for Homicide, —
(A Mania which, encouraged, thrives
On Taking Other People's Lives).
 
 
"Fools and Their Money soon must part!"
And you can help this on, may be,
If, in the kindness of your Heart,
You Learn to Take things easily;
And be, with little education,
A Prince of Misappropriation.
 

"A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss."

 
I never understood, I own,
What anybody (with a soul)
Could mean by offering a Stone
This needless warning not to Roll;
And what inducement there can be
To gather Moss I fail to see.
 
 
I'd sooner gather anything,
Like primroses, or news perhaps,
Or even wool (when suffering
A momentary mental lapse);
But could forego my share of moss,
Nor ever realize the loss.
 
 
'Tis a botanical disease,
And worthy of remark as such;
Lending a dignity to trees,
To ruins a romantic touch.
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
But not worth writing home about.
 
 
Of all the Stones I ever met,
In calm repose upon the ground,
I really never found one yet
With a desire to roll around;
Theirs is a stationary rôle, —
(A joke, – and feeble on the whole).
 
 
But, if I were a stone, I swear
I'd sooner move and view the World
Than sit and grow the greenest hair
That ever Nature combed and curled.
I see no single saving grace
In being known as "Mossyface!"
 
 
Instead, I might prove useful for
A weapon in the hand of Crime,
A paperweight, a milestone, or
A missile at Election time;
In each capacity I could
Do quite incalculable good.
 
 
When well directed from the Pit,
I might promote a welcome death,
If fortunate enough to hit
Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,
Who twice each day the playhouse fills, —
(For further Notice See Small Bills).
 
 
At concerts, too, if you prefer,
I could prevent your growing deaf,
By silencing the amateur
Before she reached that upper F.;
Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
Restrain some local Kubelik.
 
 
Then, human stones, take my advice,
(As you should always do, indeed);
This proverb may be very nice,
But don't you pay it any heed,
And, tho' you make the critics cross,
Roll on, and never mind the moss.