 | Our Holiday Among The Hills |  |
BONES.
The type is common: there's at least a scoreThat look on life as a rare piece of fun
And all its business a burlesque, for one
That sits and thinks the matter gravely o'er.
You bear with this—you bear it, and deplore;
But when in private life you cannot shun
Nor stop the laughing misery, once begun
—'Tis past all bearing, and the man's a bore!
He comes, and straight, up-curls the labial sheath,
Revealing all his dentistry within,
As if the man were God-made for his teeth
And not to show them were the fatal sin!
Is there no power above (there's none beneath)
To legislate a close time for the grin?
| Our Holiday Among The Hills | |