Chapter II

In this lecture I propose to explain how comic poetry is written.

Comic poetry, as I think I pointed out in my last lecture, is much more difficult than serious poetry, because there are all sorts of rules. In serious poetry there are practically no rules, and what rules there are may be shattered with impunity as soon as they become at all inconvenient. Rhyme, for instance. A well-known Irish poet once wrote a poem which ran like this:

"Hands, do as you're bid,
Draw the balloon of the mind
That bellies and sags in the wind
Into its narrow shed."

This was printed in a serious paper; but if the poet had sent it up to a humorous paper (as he might well have done) the Editor would have said, "Do you pronounce it _shid_?", and the poet would have had no answer. You see, he started out, as serious poets do, with every intention of organising a good rhyme for _bid_--or perhaps for _shed_--but he found this was more difficult than he expected. And then, no doubt, somebody drove all his cattle on to his croquet-lawn, or somebody else's croquet-lawn, and he abandoned the struggle. I shouldn't complain of that; what I do complain of is the _deceitfulness_ of the whole thing. If a man can't find a better rhyme than _shed_ for a simple word like _bid_, let him give up the idea of having a rhyme at all; let him write--

Hands, do as you're TOLD,

or

Into its narrow HUT (or even HANGAR).

That at least would be an honest confession of failure. But to write _bid_ and _shed_ is simply a sinister attempt to gain credit for writing a rhymed poem _without doing it at all_.

Well, that kind of thing is not allowed in comic poetry. When I opened my well-known military epic, "Riddles of the King," with the couplet,

Full dress (with decorations) will be worn
When General Officers are shot at dawn,

the Editor wrote cuttingly in the margin, "Do you say _dorn_?"

The correct answer would have been, of course, "Well, as a matter of fact I do;" but you cannot make answers of that kind to Editors; they don't understand it. And that brings you to the real drawback of comic poetry; it means constant truck with Editors. But I must not be drawn into a discussion about them. In a special lecture--two special lectures---- Quite.

The lowest form of comic poetry is, of course, the Limerick; but it is a mistake to suppose that it is the easiest. It is more difficult to finish a Limerick than to finish anything in the world. You see, in a Limerick you cannot begin:--

There was an old man of West _Ham_

and go on

Who formed an original _plan_,

finishing the last line with _limb_ or _hen_ or _bun_. A serious writer could do that with impunity, and indeed with praise, but the more exacting traditions of Limerical composition insist that, having fixed on _Ham_ as the end of the first line, you must find two other rhymes to _Ham_, and good rhymes too. This is why there is so large a body of uncompleted Limericks. For many years I have been trying to finish the following unfinished masterpiece:--

There was a young man who said "_Hell!_
I don't think I feel very well----"

That was composed on the Gallipoli Peninsula; in fact it was composed under fire; indeed I remember now that we were going over the top at the time. But in the quiet days of Peace I can get no further with it. It only shows how much easier it is to begin a Limerick than to end it.

Apart from the subtle phrasing of the second line this poem is noteworthy because it is cast in the classic form. All the best Limericks are about a young man, or else an old one, who said some short sharp monosyllable in the first line. For example:--

There was a young man who said "_If_----

Now what are the rhymes to _if_? Looking up my _Rhyming Dictionary_ I see they are:--

cliff
hieroglyph
hippogriff
skiff
sniff
stiff
tiff
whiff

Of these one may reject _hippogriff_ at once, as it is in the wrong metre. _Hieroglyph_ is attractive, and we might do worse than:--

There was a young man who said "If
One murdered a hieroglyph----"

Having, however, no very clear idea of the nature of a hieroglyph I am afraid that this will also join the long list of unfinished masterpieces. Personally I should incline to something of this kind:--

There was a young man who said "If
I threw myself over a cliff
I do not believe
_One_ person would grieve----"

Now the last line is going to be very difficult. The tragic loneliness, the utter disillusion of this young man is so vividly outlined in the first part of the poem that to avoid an anticlimax a really powerful last line is required. _But there are no powerful rhymes._ A serious poet, of course, could finish up with _death_ or _faith_, or some powerful word like that. But we are limited to _skiff_, _sniff_, _tiff_ and _whiff_. And what can you do with those? Students, I hope, will see what they can do. My own tentative solution is printed, by arrangement with the Editor, on another page (458). I do not pretend that it is perfect; in fact it seems to me to strike rather a vulgar note. At the same time it is copyright, and must not be set to music in the U.S.A.

I have left little time for comic poetry other than Limericks, but most of the above profound observations are equally applicable to both, except that in the case of the former it is usual to think of the _last_ line first. Having done that you think of some good rhymes to the last line and hang them up in mid-air, so to speak. Then you think of something to say which will fit on to those rhymes. It is just like Limericks, only you start at the other end; indeed it is much easier than Limericks, though, I am glad to say, nobody believes this. If they did it would be even harder to get money out of Editors than it is already.

We will now write a comic poem about Spring Cleaning. We will have verses of six lines, five ten-syllable lines and one six-syllable. As a last line for the first verse I suggest

Where have they put my hat?

We now require two rhymes to _hat_. In the present context _flat_ will obviously be one, and _cat_ or _drat_ will be another. Our resources at present are therefore as follows:--

Line 1-- ----
" 2-- ... flat.
" 3-- ----
" 4-- ... cat or drat.
" 5-- ----
" 6--Where have they put my hat?

As for the blank lines, _wife_ is certain to come in sooner or later, and we had better put that down, supported by _life_ ("What a life!"), and _knife_ or _strife_. There are no other rhymes, except _rife_, which is a useless word.

We now hold another parade:--

Terumti--umti--umti--umti--wife,
Terumti--umti--umti--umti--flat;
Teroodle--oodle--oodle--What a life!
Terumti--oodle--umti--oodle--cat (or drat);
Teroodle--umti--oodle--umti--knife (or strife);
Where have they put my hat?

All that remains now is to fill in the umti-oodles, and I can't be bothered to do that. There is nothing in it.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

"Will any gentleman requiring a House-keeper accept two
decently brought up boys, age 12 and 8 years? Excellent cook
and housekeeper; capable of full control."

_Daily Paper._

Someone really ought to give these young sportsmen a trial.

* * * * *

THE DOMESTIC SERVANT SHORTAGE.

HOW THE MISSES MARJORIBANKS DE VERE (WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF A PERRUQUIER) UPHOLD THE DIGNITY OF HER LADYSHIP THEIR MAMA'S AFTERNOON "AT HOMES."]

* * * * *

_The Visitor._ "BUT YOU SPOIL THE PLACE BY HAVING THE PUBLIC INCINERATOR ON THAT HILL OVER THERE."

_The Town Clerk._ "PARDON ME, SIR--THAT IS _MY_ IDEA. IT COMPLETES THE RESEMBLANCE TO THE BAY OF NAPLES, WHICH WE INSIST ON IN ALL OUR ADVERTISEMENTS."]

* * * * *

THE LOQUACIOUS INSTINCT.

Don't you ever know the impulse, when you are idly turning the pages of a telephone directory, to ring up some total stranger and engage him in light conversation?

I do, quite intensely. In moments of ennui, when there is really nothing to do in the office, the fear of discovery alone restrains me. I'm not sure that I can rely on the professional secrecy of the girl at the exchange. Has she strength of mind to refuse a righteously indignant subscriber who demands to know (with imprecations) what number has been talking to him?

I could take her into my confidence, I suppose. Only the thing oughtn't to be elaborately premeditated; it should be sudden and spontaneous, the matter of a happy moment. You get your number and say:--

"Hullo! Is that Barefoot and Humpage, the architects? Can I speak to Mr. Barefoot--or Mr. Humpage?"

"Mr. Humpage speaking. Who is that, please?"

"Well, I want you to design me a cathedral. By to-morrow afternoon, if poss--"

"To design you a what?"

"A cathedral. C-A-T-H---- but I expect you heard me that time. A massive structure, you know, chiefly built of stone. As at Salisbury, and Ely, and--well, probably you'll know what I mean. Now, as to details----"

"Who are you?"

"I? Oh, I'm a collector of these buildings in a small way. But about this one we're discussing. Something in the pre-Raphaelite manner, do you think--with arpeggios dotted about here and there?"

Of course I don't know what Mr. Humpage would say at this point. Therein would lie the fascination of these experiments--to discover just what different people would say at that kind of point.

Take Mr. Absalom, for instance, who is described in the Directory as a commission agent. How would he express himself, I wonder, if I were to ring him up and request him to dispose, on the most advantageous terms, of my commission in the Army?

Messrs. Wheable Brothers too. Just the people I've been looking for.

"You're the sand and gravel contractors, aren't you?" I should begin, "Well, I know of some sand that badly wants contracting."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Perhaps I had better explain. You see, I always spend my holidays at Pipton-on-Sea. This year, in fact, I'm going there in two or three weeks' time. Earlier holidays--a splendid movement, what? See railway posters. In June the average snowfall is only---- But the point is that at Pipton there's a belt of about two miles of sand, even at high-tide--several hundred yards, anyhow--and it _does_ spoil the bathing so. Now if you could arrange to have this sand contracted to half or a third of its present width? Perhaps you'll quote me terms. Thank you so much."

Then there's the Steam Packet Company at a neighbouring port. One might ask them to supply half-a-dozen small packets of steam for the ungumming of envelope-flaps.

I find also in the Directory two or three gentlemen with the surname of "George." I could profess to be an earnest Liberal opponent of the PRIME MINISTER, accustomed to refer to him by that disrespectful abbreviation:--

"Oh, is that Mr. George? Well, Sir, I wanted to have a word with you on your handling of the European situation. Now, it's surely obvious that the Jugo-Slavs--"

It seems possible that your victim now and then might enter into the spirit of the thing and do his best to make the dialogue a success. Contrariwise, if you were seeking violent excitements, you would ask a retired admiral, let us say, his opinion on the question "Do flappers put their hair up too soon?" or some such urgent problem of the day. How jolly these promiscuous exercises in conversation might be!

* * * * *

_Biddy_ (_recovering a spoon the morning after the party_). "SURE, ONE AV THE GUESTS MUST HAVE HAD A HOLE IN HIS POCKUT."]

* * * * *

TO THE NEW POLICEMAN.

["Increased remuneration is attracting to the force a
more intellectual and better class of recruit.... Police
administration here is now organised in a more humanitarian
spirit than formerly, and a policeman is as much encouraged
to prevent the necessity of an arrest as to effect an
arrest."--_Sir WILLIAM GENTLE (retiring chief of the Brighton
Police Force, unofficially known as "Sir William Gentle's
Gentlemen"), interviewed by "The Daily Sketch._"]

O Robert, in our hours of crime
Certain to nab us every time,
Or, failing, fill a dungeon cell
With someone who does just as well;

Now you're a gentleman in blue
Provided with a princely screw,
More is expected of you still;
You must _prevent_ us doing ill.

No longer is it deemed enough
To slip the hand within the "cuff,"
To trap road-hogs and motor-bikes,
Or merely to arrest _Bill Sikes_.

Thus, when you take position at
The window of an empty flat,
And _Bill_ arrives to burgle it,
Urge him his evil ways to quit;

Or, posted in a public bar,
Where men drink too much beer by far,
Before them you might firmly put
The arguments of PUSSYFOOT;

Or, summoned to a scene of strife,
Persuade the fellow with the knife
By means of tactful reasoning
That murder is not quite the thing.

The world would profit if you took
A leaf from out the Parson's book,
Becoming a judicious blend
Of "guide, philosopher and friend."

Discard your truncheon for a tract;
Strive to admonish ere you act;
In Virtue's force enrol recruits
And stamp out Belial with your boots.

* * * * *

ITEMS FROM ANYWHERE.

(_After the model of most of the dailies, by our specially unreliable news service._)

It is reported that, owing to the present high price of labour, a German Zeppelin is to be loaned to the Government to carry out the demolition of the nineteen unnecessary City churches.

* * * * *

Arrested on a charge of loitering with felonious intent, Thomas Wrott, aged forty, of Featherleigh, Beds, stated that he was building a house.

* * * * *

Though the titles of all the pictures in a recent Vorticist exhibition were placed by a printer's error opposite to the wrong numbers in the catalogue, none of the visitors discovered the mistake.

* * * * *

Strike action is threatened in Manchester by the Amalgamated Society of Tyldesleys, several Lancashire wickets having been taken by non-union labour.

* * * * *

It is reported that Lord FISHER was recently traversing _The Times_ with a belt of Biblical sentences when a cross-feed occurred, causing the action to jam.

* * * * *

A silver salver is to be presented to the Royal Automobile Club in token of gratitude by octogenarian villagers of Sussex.

* * * * *

"Experienced Cook-General Wanted; comfortable home; liberal
outings; wages L40; policeman handy."--_Welsh Paper._

Would it not have been more tactful to say, "Copper in kitchen"?

* * * * *

_Disgusted Plutocrat_ (_to partner, who has just missed a fifty-pound putt_). "COULDN'T YOU SEE THAT SLOPE AFTER I POINTED IT OUT TO YOU?"

_Partner._ "AFTER YOU'D DONE WAVING THOSE DIAMONDS ABOUT I COULDN'T SEE ANYTHING."]

* * * * *

FOR REMEMBRANCE.

In stone perdurable and bronze austere
We have bequeathed the memory of the dead
Unto the yet unborn; "'their name,'" we said,
"'Liveth for evermore'; each happier year
Shall see, we trust, before the unmossed stone
Love and Remembrance wed."

Though from dim hosts that narrow and recede
Dear unforgotten eyes salute us still,
Look back a moment, make our pulses thrill
With the old music, though the festal weed
Of Spring be cypress-girt, oblivion
Will come, as Winter will.

Ah, not oblivion drowsing love and pain
Into dull slumber; still we can retell
How young blithe valour broke the powers of hell;
We grope for hands that will not stir again
In ours, hear still in every carillon
The cadence of Farewell.

Not these things and not thus do we forget;
But the informing spirit, the dream within
And the high ardour that was half-akin
To ancient faiths and half to hopes not yet
Coherent, unperceived are surely gone,
Like stars that dawnward set.

Though "their name liveth," the dream they died to bring
Unto fruition eludes our fumbling hold;
The Othman riders gallop to their old
Red revels, and the seas are darkening
Round all the Asian shores, while one by one
Depart the sweets of Spring.

O you whom yet we mourn, for whom the song
Of victory and sorrow dies not away,
Well is it with you if beyond the grey
Islands of sleep that you are met among
No world-born memories win. May there be none!
We have not remembered long.

Yet if beyond the sunset's golden choir,
Instead of one august enduring sleep,
There waits a life where memory shall keep
Her ancient force and hope her old desire,
Now, even now, on altars cleft and prone
Rekindle the pure fire!