I says, "To put it pleasant you're a screech,
Your smile would shoo the seagulls off the beach,
Your face would give Vesuvius a chill.
You're just what Mr. Shakespeare calls 'a pill
Trying to keep company with a peach.'
Now, if you want to answer with a speech,
Open your trap at once, or else lie still."

But when I handed Gill the Grip this cluster
He simply clamped his language-mill down tight,
Strangled his guff and acted rather fluster
Although I'm sure I spoke to him polite.
I guess that Mr. Gilly ain't the kind
That understands when people talk refined.



X



Three days with sad skidoo have came and went,
Yet Pansy cometh nix to ride with me.
I rubber vainly at the throng to see
Her golden locks - gee! such a discontent!
Perhaps she's beat it with some soapy gent -
Perhaps she's promised Gill the Grip to be
His No. 1 till Death tolls "23!"
While I am Outsky in the supplement.