Oh two or three times or maybe just onth
A week or a couple of times a month,
I get to feeling a little tinglish,
And speaking all kinds of unusual English,
And things seem easy that once were difficult.
I feel that any old faith’s a terrific cult,
And the sky looks gold and the landscape silver—
I run out the door to go wade in the rilver,
Get all tied up in the wirage and barbage
Of a barbed wire fence and a can of garbage,
Watch the old cow calve and the mama elf elve,
And eat a big lunch about quarter to twelve,
And grab somebody even though I don’t know ’im,
And make him listen to a wonderful poem:
“Now ain’t that a wonder-wonder-ful-f-
Ul dog over there, or is it a wolf?”