Song of the Roaster on the Walk

                                      I

You can have your turn at opera in a jumbled, foreign tongue,

Where you do not know the meaning of a single word that’s sung;

Where the audience is jeweled like a rainbow in the sky,

And the red and gold surroundings all are pleasing to the eye.

You can listen to the nocturnes, with the fiddles playing low,

To the heavy marshal music as the soldiers come and go,

But my choice, for steady diet, I would neither gibe, nor mock,

Is the music of the roaster as it whistles on the walk.

“Com’ an’ buya you da peanut from da leetla peanut stand,

Com’ an’ dropa me you’ nickla, com’ an’ warma your hand;

Leeson you for hear my wheestle, for I cannot nica talk,”

Says the little peanut roaster as it whistles on the walk.

                                      II

I am dull, and called old fashioned, and my tastes are not ideal,

And I poke around in quarters which to some would not appeal;

I opine my ear is lacking in the music that is rife,

But I find a satisfaction in the simple things in life.

There is music in the clatter of the hoofs along the street,

There’s a solace in the moaning of the wintry winds that beat.

There is music in the jangle, in the clamor and the talk;

There is music, to my notion, in the roaster on the walk.

“Stopa you for speak weeth Tony, he who runs dees peanut stand,

Stopa you for say ‘good evenin’ ’ an’ for warma your hand;

Leeson you for hear my wheestle, buy you peanut – now you talk!”

Says the little peanut roaster as it sings upon the walk.

                                      III

When the night is dark and chilly and the snow is pelting down,

When the streets are quite deserted and it’s lonely through the town,

Then the music of the roaster as it falls upon the ear,

Though ‘tis but a little whistle, is a cheerful thing to hear.

Then I stop and chat with Tony in a friendly sort of way,

While the night so black and lonely has been transformed into day;

And the silence so oppressive it has vanished with the Auk,

By the music of the roaster as it whistles on the walk.

“O you reecha ‘Mericana w’en you feel so beeg, so grand,

Stopa you for speak weeth Tony by hees leeta peanut stand;

Stop for warm you’ hand an leeson for my music, stop for talk,”

Says the little peanut roaster as it whistles down the walk.

Dec. 21, ‘09