McUmphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs. Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues, And his topic — himself — is worth talking about, But he works it so much he has frazzled it out.
He never will give me my half of a chance To chip in my own little, clever romance In the first person singular. Yes, and they say, He offended you, too, in a similar way.
Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent, In a most minute way which is almost indecent! Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter, She serves us her portions — as if on a platter,
Never noting how I am but waiting to stir My dregs of diseases to offer to her. And I hear ( such a joke! ) that your chronic gastritis Stands silent forever before her nephritis.
Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night, And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright, While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head, And Maggie — well, some things are better unsaid.
Such manners to talk of her help — when she knows My wife's simply aching to tell of our woes! And I hear that she never lets you get a start On your story of Rosy we all know by heart.
You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tell The Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell, The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please — And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese.
And he sprang that old yarn of He Said‘ t was His Leg, When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg, While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale ( Which I recently wrote ) of The Man in the Whale!
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