[1724] warty bliggens the toad

i met a toad
the other day by the name
of warty bliggens
he was sitting under
a toadstool
feeling contented
he explained that when the cosmos
was created
that toadstool was especially planned for his personal
shelter from sun and rain
thought out and prepared
for him

do not tell me
said warty bliggens
that there is not a purpose
in the universe
the thought is blasphemy

a little more
conversation revealed
that warty bliggens
considers himself to be
the centre of the said
universe
the earth exists
to grow toadstools for him
to sit under
the sun to give him light
by day and the moon
and wheeling constellations
to make beautiful
the night for the sake of
warty bliggens

to what act of yours
do you impute
this interest on the part
of the creator
of the universe
i asked him
why is it that you
are so greatly favoured

ask rather
said warty bliggens
what the universe has done to deserve me

if i were a
human being i would
not laugh
too complacently
at poor warty bliggens
for similar
absurdities
have only too often
lodged in the crinkles
of the human cerebrum

archy

	-- Don Marquis

	From "archy and mehitabel", 1927.

I really enjoyed Saturday's grook.  It's great when something makes you
laugh out loud.  It put me immediately in mind of 'warty bliggens the toad'
by Don Marquis, which isn't on the Minstrels site yet, so I reproduce it
here in case Piet Hein triggers a rush of similar thoughts.

Back in the mists of time (the 70s) when I used to teach 11 year olds, we
always used to have fun with this poem.  It's like the tale of the Sunday
School teacher who is telling her group the parable Christ told of the
Pharisee and the tax collector (Luke 18: 9-14).

 'Two men went up into the temple to pray; one was a Pharisee, and the other
was a tax collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed to himself like this:
"God, I thank you, that I am not like the rest of men, extortioners,
unrighteous, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a
week. I give tithes of all that I get." But the tax collector, standing far
away, wouldn't even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying,
"God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" I tell you, this man went down to his
house justified rather than the other; for everyone who exalts himself will
be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted.'

And then the teacher says to the children, "Now then, boys and girls, put
your hands together and let's all thank God that we're not like that smug
Pharisee!"

Cheers,
Martin Davis.

[this poem is archived, accessible and awaiting your comments at]
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1724.html
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