James Whitcomb Riley


The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon

And wistfully gazed on the sea

Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune

To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."

The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek

Was fitfully wafted afar

To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek

With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig,

And his heart it grew heavy as lead

As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing

On the opposite side of his head,

And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill

Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies,

And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill

To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance,

And the Squidjum hid under a tub

As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance

With a rub-a-dub—dub-a-dub—dub!

And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died,

"My fate there is none to bewail,"

While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide

With a long piece of crape to her tail.