O. Henry
THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF O. HENRY
Published by
Books
- Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting -
2017 OK Publishing
ISBN 978-80-272-0160-0
Table of Contents
A Contribution
There came unto ye editor
A poet, pale and wan,
And at the table sate him down,
A roll within his hand.
Ye editor accepted it,
And thanked his lucky fates;
Ye poet had to yield it up
To a king full on eights.
Chanson De Bohême
Lives of great men all remind us
Rose is red and violet’s blue;
Johnny’s got his gun behind us
‘Cause the lamb loved Mary too.
— Robert Burns’ “Hocht Time in the aud Town.”
I’d rather write this, as bad as it is
Than be Will Shakespeare’s shade;
I’d rather be known as an F. F. V.
Than in Mount Vernon laid.
I’d rather count ties from Denver to Troy
Than to head Booth’s old programme;
I’d rather be special for the New York World
Than to lie with Abraham.
For there’s stuff in the can, there’s Dolly and Fan,
And a hundred things to choose;
There’s a kiss in the ring, and every old thing
That a real live man can use.
I’d rather fight flies in a boarding house
Than fill Napoleon’s grave,
And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed
Than be André the brave.
I’d rather distribute a coat of red
On the town with a wad of dough
Just now, than to have my cognomen
Spelled “Michael Angelo.”
For a small live man, if he’s prompt on hand
When the good things pass around,
While the world’s on tap has a better snap
Than a big man under ground.
Drop A Tear In This Slot
He who, when torrid Summer’s sickly glare
Beat down upon the city’s parched walls,
Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,
And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,
Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,
Wrote variations of the seaside joke
We all do know and always loved so well,
And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay
In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves
Anon
Will in that selfsame room, with tattered quilt
Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,
All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter’s blasts,
Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,
So that we may expect it not in vain,
The joke of how with curses deep and coarse
Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.
So ye
Who greet with tears this olden favorite,
Drop one for him who, though he strives to please
Must write about the things he never sees.
Hard To Forget