Impertinent poems fc J& V F iiiffjtwfin.Ti Mi ^ HP Caere's; one pon musft get next to Pagetf =£0= A PRE-IMPERTINENCE. A NTICIPATING the intelligent critic of "Im- pertinent Poems," it may well be remarked that the chief impertinence is in calling them poems. Be that as it may, the editors and publishers of "The Saturday Evening Post," "Success" and "Ainslee's," and, in a lesser degree, "Metropolitan," "Indepen- dent," "Booklovers* " and "New York Herald" share with the author the reproach of first promoting their publicity. That they are now willing to further re- duce their share of the burden by dividing it with the present publishers entitles them to the thanks of the author and the gratitude of the book-buying public. E. V. C. ac Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/impertinentpoems01cook $— — — ■' " 1 INDEX. PAGE Are You You ? 59 Better 83 Between Two Thieves 71 Blood is Red 33 Bubble-Flies, The 61 Choice, The 68 Conscience Pianissimo 47 Conservative, The 40 Critics, The 89 Dead Men's Dust 11 Desire 99 Diagnosis 35 Dilettant, The 38 Distance and Disenchantment 77 Don't Take Your Troubles to Bed 22 Don't You? 16 Eternal Everyday, The 21 Failure 23 Familiarity Breeds Contempt 95 Family Resemblance 79 First Person Singular, The 66 Forget What the Other Man Hath 85 Get Next 57 Good 24 Grill, The 30 How Did You Die ? 103 / C^i =£Xi INDEX. PAGE Humbler Heroes 45 Hush 41 In Nineteen Hundred and Now 14 Island, The 43 Let's Be Glad We're Living 26 Move 55 Need 81 Pass 51 Plug 92 Price, The 60 Publicity 53 Qualified 63 Saving Clause, The 70 Song of Rest, A 97 Spectator, The 73 Spread Out 37 Squealer, The 75 Success 28 There Is, Oh, So Much 101 Vision, The 32 What Are You Doing? 65 What Sort Are You ? 87 Whet, The 86 World Runs On, The 49 You Too 18 7 =£0= t DEAD MEN'S DUST. VOU don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.) X Why? You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend Editions de luxe on a thirsty friend. You can buy any one of the poetry bunch For the price you pay for a business lunch. Don't you suppose that a hungry head, Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed? Looking into myself, I find this true, So I hardly can figure it false in you. (ID T,au-,r =DQ IMPERTINENT ■J And you don't read poetry very much. (Such Is my own case also.) "But," you cry, "I have n't the time." Beloved, you lie. When a scandal happens in Buffalo, You ponder the details, con and pro; If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell Which of the poets licked John L.? If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled As to which of the poets married a Gould? And even my books might have some hope If poetry books were books of dope. "You're a little bit swift," you say to me, "See!" You open your library. There you show Your "favorite poets," row on row, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, A Homer unread, an uncut Horace, A wholly forgotten William Morris. My friend, my friend, can it be you thought That these were poets whom you had bought? These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies To display your style, like clothing dummies. But when do they talk to you? Some one said That these were poets which should be read, So here they stand. But tell me, pray, How many poets who live to-day (12) =LXi = =: V IMPERTINENT PO Have you, of your own volition, sought, Discovered and tested, proved and bought, With a grateful glow that the dollar you spent Netted the poet his ten per cent.? "But hold on," you say, "I am reading you/" True, And pitying, too, the sorry end Of the dog I tried this on. My friend, I ca.ii write poetry— good enough So you would n't look at the worthy stuff. But knowing what you prefer to read I'm setting the pace at about your speed, Being rather convinced these truths will hold you A little bit better than if I'd told you A genuine poem and forgotten to scold you. Besides, when I open my little room And see my poets, each in his tomb, With his mouth dust-stopped, I turn from the shelf And I must scold you, or scold myself. (13) JXL 32= IMPERTINENT IN NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NOW. 'THOMAS MOORE, at the present date, Is chiefly known as "a ten-cent straight." Walter, the Scot, is forgiven his rimes Because of his tales of stirring times. William Morris's fame will wear As a practical man who made a chair. And even Shakespere's memory's green Less because he's read than because he's seen. Then why should a poet make his bow In the year of nineteen hundred and now? Homer himself, if he could but speak, Would admit that most of his stuff is Greek. Chaucer would no doubt own his tongue Was the broken speech of the land when young. Shelley's a sealed-up book, and Byron Is chiefly recalled as a masculine siren. Poe has a perch on the chamber door, But the populace read him "Nevermore." Spenser fitted his day, as all allow, But this is nineteen hundred and now. Tennyson's chiefly given away To callow girls on commencement day. Alfred Austin, entirely solemn, Is quoted most in the funny column. Riley's Hoosiers have made their pile And moved to the city to live in style. (14) =DQ= T-T ' ■" IMPERTINENT PC c Kipling's compared to "The Man Who Was," And the rest of us write with little cause, Till publishers shy at talk of per cents., But offer to print "at author's expense." O, once the "celestial fire" burned bright, But the world now calls for electric light! And Pegasus, too, is run by meter, Being trolleyized to make him fleeter. So I throw the stylus away and set Myself at the typewriter alphabet To spell some message I find within Which shall also scratch your rawhide skin, For you must read it, if I learn how To write for nineteen hundred and now. (13) SEE ~s^ \ DON'T YOU? TXT" HEN the plan which I have, to grow suddenly VV rich Grows weary of leg and drops into the ditch, And scheme follows scheme Like the web of a dream To glamor and glimmer and shimmer and seem, . . Only seem; And then, when the world looks unfadably blue, If my rival sails by With his head in the sky, And sings "How is business?" why, what do I do? Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true, But I sometimes lie, Don't you? (16) ^x^ IMPERTINENT When something at home is decidedly wrong, When somebody sings a false note in the song, Too low or too high, And, you hardly know why, But it wrangles and jangles and runs all awry, . . . Aye, awry! And then, at the moment when things are askew, Some cousin sails in With a face all a-grin, And a "Do I intrude? Oh, I see that I do!" Well, then, though I aim to be honest and true, Still I sometimes lie. Don't you? When a man whom I need has some foible or fad, Not very commendable, not very bad; Perhaps it's his daughter, And some one has taught her To daub up an "oil" or to streak up a "water"; What a "water"! And her grass is green green and her sky is blue blue, But her father, with pride, In a stagey aside Asks my "candid opinion." Then what do I do? Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true, But I sometimes lie. Don't you? (17) =DQ= IMPERTINENT YOU TOO. *P\ID you ever make some small success And brag your little brag, As if your breathing would impress The world and fix your tag Upon it, so that all might see The label loudly reading, "ME!" And when you thought you 'd gained the height And, sunning in your own delight, You preened your plumes and crowed "All right!" Did something wipe you out of sight? Unless you did this many a time You need n't stop to read this rime. When I was mamma's little joy And not the least bit tough, I 'd sometimes whop some other boy (If he were small enough), And for a week I 'd wear a chip, And at the uplift of a lip I 'd lord it like a pigmy pope, Until, when I had run my rope, Some bullet-headed little Swope Would clean me out as slick as soap. No doubt you were as bad, or worse, Or else you had not read this verse. (18) a Mtl ff Page 18. JXL IMPERTINENT POEMS All women were like pica print When I was young and wise; I 'd read their very souls by dint Of looking in their eyes. And in those limpid souls I' d see A very fierce regard for me. And then — my, my, it makes me faint! — Peroxide and a pinkish paint Gave me the hard, hard heart complaint, I saw the sham, I felt the taint, Yet if she 'd pat me once or twice, I 'd follow like a little fyce. I never played a little game And won a five or ten, But, presto! I was not the same As common makes of men. Not Solomon and all his kind Held half the wisdom of my mind. And so I 'd swell to twice my size, And throw my hat across my eyes, And chew a quill, and wear red ties, And tip you off the stock to rise — Until, at last, I 'd have to steal The baby's bank to buy a meal. I speak as if these things remained All in the perfect tense, And yet I don't suppose I 've gained A single ounce of sense. (19) iXL IMPERTINENT POEMS I scoff these tales of yesterday In quite a supercilious way, But by to-morrow I may bump Into some newer game and jump! You '11 think I am the only trump In all the deck until — kerslump! Unless you'll do the same some time, Of course you have n't read this rime. (20) Cfje Ctemal Ctoerpirap Page 21. =oa RTINENT POEMS THE ETERNAL EVERYDAY. f^\ ONE might be like Socrates ^^ And lift the hemlock up, Pledge death with philosophic ease, And drain the untrembling cup; — But to be barefoot and be great, Most in desert and least in state, Servant of truth and lord of fate ! I own I falter at the peak Trod daily by the steadfast Greek. O, one might nerve himself to climb His cross and cruelly die, Forgiving his betrayer's crime, With pity in his eye; — But day by day and week by week To feel his power and yet be meek, Endure the curse and turn the cheek, I scarce dare trust even you to be As was the Jew of Galilee. O, one might reach heroic heights By one strong burst of power. He might endure the whitest lights Of heaven for an hour; — But harder is the daily drag, To smile at trials which fret and fag, And not to murmur — nor to lag. The test of greatness is the way One meets the eternal Everyday. (21) JX± IMPERTINENT POEMS. DON'T TAKE YOUR TROUBLES TO BED. "yOU may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you X will; You may worry a bit, if you must; You may treat your affairs as a series of cares, You may live on a scrap and a crust; But when the day's done, put it out of your head; Don't take your troubles to bed. You may batter your way through the thick of the fray, You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt; You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this rule Should ever be kept at the front: — Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head And kick every worriment out of the bed. That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't know), Whose name we have spoken as Death, Hovers close to your side, while you run or you ride, And he envies the warmth of your breath; But he turns him away, with a shake of his head, When he finds that you don't take your troubles to bed. (22) £Kk IMP] I FAILURE. TX7HAT is a failure? It 's only a spur To a man who receives it right, And it makes the spirit within him stir To go in once more and fight. If you never have failed, it's an even guess You never have won a high success. What is a miss? It's a practice shot Which a man must make to enter The list of those who can hit the spot Of the bull's-eye in the centre. If you never have sent your bullet wide, You never have put a mark inside. What is a knock-down? A count of ten Which a man may take for a rest. It will give him a chance to come up again And do his particular best. If you never have more than met your match, I guess you never have toed the scratch. rLAi IMPERTINENT GOOD. 'SJPOU look at yourself in the glass and say: "Really, I 'm rather distingue. To be sure my eyes Are assorted in size, And my mouth is a crack Running too far back, And I hardly suppose An unclassified nose Is a mark of beauty, as beauty goes; But still there 's something about the whole Suggesting a beauty of — we] 1 , say soul." And this is the reason that photograph-galleries Are able to pay employees' salaries. Now, this little mar