The Village Jokesmith

Under a warped and leaky roof

     The village jokesmith sits;

He’s trying hard to live upon

     His dull, corroded wits,

While now and then a paltry check

     Across his vision flits.

His hair is sandy, thin and long,

     His face is wrinkled quite;

His brow is furrowed deep with lines

     From thoughts he would invite,

Yet no one ever said to him

     That he a joke could write.

Day in, day out, from dawn till dark

     He scratches with his pen;

Week in, week out, he mails his jokes,

     And they come back again.

Alas! They cannot see the point,

     Those dull newspaper men.

And children on their way to school

     Observe him daily sit

Beneath the rafters all alone,

     This poor, misguided wit

Toiling, sorrowing, hoping he

     Some day will make a hit.

The Sabbath finds him not in church,

     His clothing is too spare;

For all he’d like to get right well,

     Alas, he does not dare

Because he’s worn his trousers out

     From sitting on his chair.

While he soars on the wings of thought

     He hears his helpmeet’s voice

Upbraiding, every now and then,

     Unruly girls and boys,

And knowing he is free from harm

     It makes his heart rejoice.

Scratching, digging, hammering hard

     At jokes in verse and prose;

Something attempted, nothing done,

     That’s how his humor goes.

When day is done he’s earned perhaps

     A decent night’s repose.

No thanks to thee my joking friend

     For lessons thou hast taught;

No fortune at the flaming forge

     Of humor have you wrought.

Go out and get another job

     Me thinks is what you ought.

Jan. 17, 1913

Joe Cone’s workshop, Old Saybrook

(‘paltry’ in the 5^th line looks like, perhaps ‘coming’ in the original. It was changed when typed.)