Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/Lines by a Tired City Clerk

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

LINES BY A TIRED CITY CLERK.

Enviously dedicated to King Thee-Baw of Burmah.

I am weary here, and lonely;
And I wish that I could only
Be a monarch, or a prince in Eastern land;
 For my life is full of worry,
 And I'm damned, and told to hurry;
And I drive a weary quill with weary hand.

 I would be a frowning Rajah
 Fierce and gray as any badger,
With a cimeter of crooked limber steel,
 And a turban turned, and twisted;
 And if any man resisted
My authority, I'd cleave him to the heel.

 I would lord it o'er the niggers
 With a pistol of two triggers,
And a double-barreled blunderbuss beside;
 And I'd howl like old Othello,
 And with jealousy grow yellow
When I pleased—and raise the devil till I died.

 I would swim in seas of slaughter,
 And would give no room for quarter;
But would carve, and stab my victims in the neck;
 And the corpse of each objector
 I would give to the dissector;
For of human life I'd make a total wreck.

 I would pay no bills of tailors;
 But would have just twenty sailors
To swear at every tradesman that came in;
 And behind them fifty slashers,
 Ten clubbers, and six gashers
To finish out this bill of fare of sin.

 I would be a holy terror—
 Or I'm very much in error—
To the mothers that are called the ones "in law,"
 And my sixteen wives' relations
 I'd put on salted rations,
And lock them in a dungeon cold and raw.

 I would have an hundred horses,
 And would spend the realm's resources
Upon drinks of every clime and every age.
 By Bacchus, how I'd go it!
 Steeped in rum, I'd be a poet
And rhyme in wrathful rhapsodies of rage.

 Then, Allah ila Allah!
 Let the Norseman have Valhalla;
But for me, I'll take the rare and racy East.
 For, by the bearded prophet!
 This life I live is Tophet,
And a clerk is but a slave, to say the least.