CIVIC SUPERFLUITIES.

Observer, Volume XXVIII, Issue 26, 14 March 1908, Page 23

CIVIC SUPERFLUITIES.

SOME PEOPLE WE COULD DO WITHOUT

[The idea for this disgraceful doggerel has been basely borrowed from Sir W. S. Gilbert. Such felony is, however, permitted according to the poet's license, and, anyway, Gilbert shouldn't object to having his work improved upon.]

Now, as some day ib may happen that you feel extremely wild, And you're looking for a victim of your spleen, There are people to whose loss all tolk would soon be reconciled, Tho' you think, perchance, this last remark is mean — But it isn't — not exactly — if you cast your eyes around, You will note the truth of everything I say ; So I've made a list bereunder of the pests that now abound, Kindly scan it when you feel inclined to slay. They are all superfluous creatures, and 'tis plain, without a doubt, -They are all the sort of people we would rather do without. Take the energetic ringers of St. Matthew's jangling bells, They would do for a beginning, . don't you think ? If you listen to the clamour while the hideous discord swells, You'll be fib for aught from murder down to drink. Say you're sitting deep in study over books of dry research, And these bells begin their jangle and their roar. Oh, 'tis likely for the ringers you'll be waiting at the church With a tomahawk to seek the ringers' gore. If these Gillamites persist that others' feelings they should flout, Well, they're just the class of people we would rather do without. Hear the females at the theatre who maintain incessant chat, All oblivious to the beauties of the play. "Look at Mrs Remuera — don't she look an artful cat?" "Mrs Ponsonby is flighty, so they say." Thus they chatter all the evening, while you try to hear in vain The dialogue in progress on the stage, If you dare to ask for silence, they will view you with disdain, And they'll mutter all the louder in their rage. But the theatre would be better for their absence, there's no doubt, They are just the sort of people we would rather do without. There's the bashful courting couple who, in sentimental dreams, At the theatre sit in majesty sublime ; Angelina all the ev'ning sits and chews at chocolate creams, And a paper bag she rustles all the time. William Henry sits repeating, in most thund'rous stage asides, All the funny things they're saying in the play. Fellows shouldn't take their best girls ' till they've made 'em intoibrides, Then they mightn't, p'raps, have quite so much to say. Yes, the lovers at the theatre (Angelina, p'raps, may pout) Are the sort of individuals we would rather be without. There's the gentleman whose fancy often lightly turns to fruit, And who strews the pavement with banana peel, Which is not exactly pleasant when it gets you underfoot, 1 For it lays you with your head be- . neath your heel. | There's the fondly doting mother, who i gives oranges galore To her children when she takes them , for a walk, l And they place the skins serenely in the streets, and you go o'er, Then they gather round to listen while yon talk. And all folk who throw banana peel and orange skins about Are the sort of superfluities we'd rather do without.

There's the motorman majestic who is smitten blind If he sees that you are waiting for his car. You may wave, and shout, and bellow, but you're quietly lelt behind ; You can only stand and curse him from afar. There's the giddy, gay conductor who will stand on all your toes As he prances round the tram collecting fares, But you mustn't curse his highness, for 'twould shock him, goodness knows, And he's apt to mangle anyone who swears. And this class of tram employee (tho' the notion you may scout) Is the sort of gay patrician we would rather be without. There's the weary Queen-street loafer (of his species there's a host), Who objects to work, whose throat is always dry, And who props his carcase daily 'gainst the same verandah post, Loudly criticising girls as they go by. And his idiocies he utters in his very loudest voice, 'Twouldn't matter if his words were only bosh, But the language that he uses is the opposite of choice — Like his face, it badly needs a thorough wash. And the hardened Queen-street loafer should be put to instant rout, He's the class of cunning cadger we would rather do without. There's that other type of cadger — he's the amateur whose mind Is set on getting all things on the cheap. When in other fellows' company, he's " left his purse behind," In excuses he is very, very deep. There's another thing about him— he is always short of change, And " It's not worth while," says he, " to break a pound." So his friends must pay the piper, .and it's joot exactly strange That his friends get fewer till they can't be found. He'll take all that friends may ofier him, but never, never shout — He's the kind of arrant sponger we would rather be without. There's the tig and selfish blackguard who, with wild and reckless rush, Makes a charge upon the cars at five o'clock ; And he tramples all before him, he'd be foremost in the crush, So be careful if his way you try to block. For he doesn't heed the children — he is anxious for his tea, So he smashes all that comes within his way ; In the car he sits and chuckles in a Satnrnalian glee, A3 he gazes on the victims of the fray. And the hog who rushes trarncars is a sanguinary lout, He's the kind of selfish ruffian we would rather do without. There are several other people who are worthy of disdain, There's the artist who employs his evil pen To expose to ribald mockery, and cause sad grief and pain To his gentle- minded, suffring fellow men. There are also sundry poets who are fond of .writing rot, And, now I come to mention it, 'tis clear, That 'twould save a lot of trouble to exterminate the lot, And echo mutters thunderously : "Hear! hear!" For poetical insanity, 'tis plain, without a doubt, Is a violent epidemic we would rather be without.