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Show Old Homer owned no inch of ground But he sung and passed his hat around He owned no home, no farm, no books, no ink Yet he had divers thoughts to think. If nothing within the skull abides Then nothing helps a man outside And what avails a sea of ink To him who has no thoughts to think. SAM WALTER FOSS AROUND THE CORNER IN SUGAR HOUSE WITH THE EDITOR YOU REAPERS are in need old in favor of something new. of a refreshing change from the We came across a "pome" which usual stuff you get in this col- appealed to us, and it is here- umn, so we're eliminating the with reproduced for you . . . A BOTTLE OF INK A man once bought a bottle of Ink i To write the thoughts that he might think A marble table then he bought Whereupon to write the thoughts he thought. He bought a farm fringes round with wood Encompassed round with solitude That he where none molest might sit And write the thoughts he thought he'd think. And then around his bottle of ink He built a house in which to think And in this house he built a room Retired in dim scholastic gloom. A room filled up with alcove nooks And furnished with ten thousand books For from such lakes of lore to drink He thought would aid his brain to think. His hair was dark and richly brown When at his desk he sat him down And long he gazed within the brink Of that potential bottle of ink. And dreamed of thougnts He thought he ought to think. Long before it did he stay Until his hair was thin and gray. Long he tried to be a bard But found his rooster crowed too hard And with his cockadoodledoos He frightened off his bashful muse. He meditated sounding lines But the winds blowing among the pines Disturbed him coming from the west And kept his fine flute lines unexpressed. And so he died, old lame and blind And left his bottle of Ink behind And some one with it wrote v A very pathetic sweet obituary. The man who suffers rrom the strain Of unwrit epics on the brain Can ease the pressure of his grief uQ With a stub pencil and a leaf. (contd above) |