Nothing to Say

NOTHING TO SAY

 
I, Q. K. P. Doesticks, of No Hall, Nowhere;
No Castle, no Villa, no Place, Court, or Terrace;
Who didn’t write “Junius,” or “Nothing to Wear,”
Who never have visited London or Paris;
Who am not a phantom, a myth, or a mystery,
But a “homo,” as solid as any of history;
As real as Antony, Cæsar, or Brutus, —
A wide-awake Yankee, so “tarnation ’cute” as
To always write Nothings, while Nothings will pay,
Am the author of this Nothing – Nothing to Say.
 
 
I mention this fact in advance, that Miss P***
May not strive to embezzle the laurels from me.
That her Reverend friend may attend to his Litany,
And leave me my fame, if perchance I shall get any.
I deemed it best, to set at rest,
This question before it was started, lest
Some terrible girl from the far countree,
Without proper regard to veracitee,
Should haste to town, to drag me down
From my envied post of poetic renown.
Miss P***, I’ve a favor to ask. – If ’tis true,
That “Nothing to Wear,” and “Nothing to Do,”
And “Nothing to Eat,” were all written by you, —
Let those three Nothings content you I pray,
Say nothing yourself; leave me “Nothing to Say.”
 
 
From time immemorial, people of fashion
Have been the target of poets and penny wits,
And been lampooned without stint or compassion,
From Dan to Beersheba – from Dublin to Dennevitz;
And our now-a-day rhymsters, taking the cue,
Have aimed all their shots at the Fifth Avenue,
Till the clever author of “Nothing to Wear,”
Fired his broadside at Madison Square.
Now I don’t consider this sort of thing personal,
I’m not a bit of a dandy or fop;
But the seed it is constantly sowing, is worse than all
Others, and bears a most plentiful crop;
For it all goes to strengthen the popular fallacy
That, because a man lives in a “brown stone palace” he
Must be a miser, a rogue and a knave,
Without soul enough to condemn or to save —
That a broadcloth coat argues sin, if not felony;
If a man has the tact in the world to get well on, he
Cannot be else than a thorough-paced scamp;
That the “villanous rich” wear a cloak and a mask, all,
And the greater the riches, the greater the rascal.
That the cardinal virtues only endure,
In the atmosphere with the “virtuous poor;”
That nowhere are found the true Christian graces,
Save closely allied to the dirtiest faces.
I shall not contradict this delightful tradition,
But beg – No, I won’t, I will take it – permission,
To state, that I think there’s a word to be said,
From a different text, on the opposite head.
And so I’ll invent, as well as I’m able,