The Poet to His Book

As much as is a troll a burly elf,
So you’re—without a place on any shelf,
Without a paper heart, without a spine,
Without an inky blot or dot or line—
A book. Your odd, perversely order’d poems—
A congeries of fays and gremlin-gnomes—
Cohabit strangely in a realm of air
Not here, not there, not no- nor anywhere,
But dis- and reappearing like a sprite
Summon’d upon a dark and stormy night…
Now here, now there, now after, now before,
Now—poof!—vanish’d, till summon’d forth once more…
And if I ever tried to stuff you whole
Between two covers, I’d never fit your soul.




That Rip Van Winkle woke and went 
   Back home is popularly known,
But how so died the idle gent
   Is curiously left alone.

I'll tell you this: To take a nap
   Into the hills he took a walk.
He ne'er walk'd back and ne'er did hap
   With any kin again to talk.

Within the hills his corpse was found,
   The elder's body lately dead,
Lying upon the dewy ground,
   A pumpkin where'd have been his head.


Out of Tune

The old dilapidated house
   That's always in the rain
Forgotten is by all the world,
   Covered with weeds its lane.

Yet, often from the house is heard
   By all but human ears
A brittle spinet sounding airs
   That seem to drip with tears;

A brittle spinet sounding airs
   In distant minor keys,
Composed of sorrows out of tune.
   Enormous wheels of cheese.


A Runcible Round

The murderous Kankers went off in a Sieve
   To cross the Bloody Sea;   
And all of their friends cried, "Happy dead ends!"
   Maliciously nice as could be,
   Their mouths full of moldy Brie.  

The night was bright with yellow light;
   A lightning storm arose.
The Kankers flew a metal kite
   That looked like a boogery nose.
The Bloody Sea delighted to bite
   A rain of torrible crows.

The Sieve was downed; the Kankers were drowned;
   Their bodies washed ashore
   Where they had sailed for.
Their smiling faces looked up from the ground 
   On the hills of the Chankly Bore,
   And sang this runcible round:——

"A bat and a rat and a cat
Convened for a quatical chat:
  They plotted a killing——
  A murder most chilling——
Of bumps in the night that go SPLAT!"