Jaloppy Joy
Past ash cans and alley cats,
Fetid. overflowing gutters,
Leprous lines of rancid flats
Where the frowsy linen flutters;
With a rattle and a jar,
hark! I sing a happy ditty,
As I speed my Master far
From the poison of the City.
Speed him to the sportive sea,
Watch him walloping the briny,
Light his pipe and brew his tea
In a little wood that’s piny;
Haven him to peace of mind.
Drowsy dreams in pleasant places,
Where the woman’s eyes are kind,
And the men have ruddy faces.
Just a jaloppy am I,
But he’s always been my lover,
So each Sunday morn I try
Youthful joy to re—discover.
For he loves the wild and free,
And though he would never know it,
Nature thrills him with the glee
And the rapture of the poet.
He’s a little invoice clerk,
I’m a worn and ancient flivver;
I have an asthmatic spark,
He an alcoholic liver;
Yet with clatter, clang and creak
We are lyrical for one day;
Then another loathly week,
Living for another Sunday.
Autres oeuvres par Robert W. Service...
