John

John, across the broad Atlantic, Tried to navigate a barque, But he met an unromantic And extremely hungry shark.

John (I blame his childhood's teachers) Thought to treat this as a lark, Ignorant of how these creatures Do delight to bite a barque.

Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and, With a scornful sort of grin, Handled an adjacent oar and Chucked it underneath the chin.

At this unexpected juncture, Which he had not reckoned on, Mr. Shark he made a puncture In the barque--and then in John.

. . . . .

Sad am I, and sore at thinking John had on some clothes of mine; I can almost see them shrinking, Washed repeatedly in brine.

I shall never cease regretting That I lent my hat to him, For I fear a thorough wetting Cannot well improve the brim.

Oh! to know a shark is browsing, Boldly, blandly, on my boots! Coldly, cruelly carousing On the choicest of my suits!

Creatures I regard with loathing, Who can calmly take their fill Of one's Jaeger underclothing:-- Down, my aching heart, be still!