When the Leaves Come Out/The Prawblem Sawlver
THE PRAWBLEM SAWLVER
His pink fingers are SO pretty,
And he has a bright and witty
Lofty brow!
Seems to think that we are slighting
All the wrongs we're really righting,
And that he does all the fighting,
Telling how.
In a condescending manner,
He adopts the worker's banner
As his own.
He descends in to the gutter,
Where we sweat for bread and butter
Saying things we COULD NOT utter
All alone.
While we work he does the grunting,
Always there for glory hunting,
Large or small.
Has there been a row—he led it,
Some wise word?—old high-brow said it,
And he always hogs the credit
For it all.
When WE speak it is with terror,
Lest an inadvertent error
He detect.
Count the foibles he abolished,
All the gods he has demolished—
And his language is SO polished
And correct!
Still I'm sure our friend so scathing
Loves our movement—as a plaything
New and rare.
He delights to solve each puzzle
That our common brains befuzzle,
And to pry his yellow muzzle
Everywhere.
We rejoice that he can love us
From the windy realms above us
Where he flies.
We poor dubs would never doubt him,
Not a single thing about him,
But how CAN we live without him
When he dies?