Wocky Jivvy: Poetry and Art "When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops

divider line and nothing more

* Poetry: Poems of Folly

The Wonderful Old Man

There was an old man
Who lived on a common
And, if fame speaks true,
He was born of a woman.
Perhaps you will laugh,
But for truth I've been told
He once was an infant
Tho' age made him old.

Whene'er he was hungry
He longed for some meat;
And if he could get it
`Twas said he would eat.
When thirsty he'd drink
If you gave him a pot,
And what he drank mostly
Ran down his throat.

He seldom or never
Could see without light,
And yet I've been told he
Could hear in the night.

He lived -- how many years
I truly can't decide;
But this one fact appears
He lived -- until he died.

"He died," I have averred,
But cannot prove `twas so,
But that he was interred,
At any rate I know.

I fancy he'd a son,
I hear he had a wife:
Perhaps he'd more than one,
I know not, on my life!

But whether he was rich,
Or whether he was poor,
Or neither -- both -- or which,
I cannot say, I'm sure.

I can't recall his name,
Or what he used to do:
But then -- well, such is fame!
`Twill so serve me and you.

And that is why I thus,
About this unknown man
Would fain create a fuss,
To rescue, if I can.

From dark oblivion's blow,
Some record of his lot:
But, ah! I do not know
Who -- where -- when -- why -- or what.


In this brief pedigree
A moral we should find --
But what it ought to be
Has quite escaped my mind.


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