To Christmas giving makes me disinclined,
Who tellest callers I have moved away
And mixest up the morning mail each day.
When for thine elevator car I ring
Thou telephonest or some other thing;
While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four,
Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor--
I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy,
But not a cent, O Elevator Boy!



Ballade of a Hardy Annual


Many a jest that refuses to die
Bobs up again as the seasons appear;
Deathless it hits us again in the eye--
Changeless and dull as the calendar year.
Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere,
Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak;
Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear--
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly,
All through the day of the "leathery sphere,"
Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy
All on the theme of the grandmother dear.
Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer
Please us and tickle us quite to the choke.