Classic Poem

A grouchy and crotchety, fussy old man,
Whose stick on the walk beats a rat-a-tat-tat,
The cut of his coat on an old-fashioned plan,
A shiny red nose and a worn beaver hat.
A blare of defiance, he trumpets his nose,
He clears his hoarse throat with a he-he-he-hem!
But the girl on his arm, she's as fair as a rose,
How grew such a flower on such a gnarled stem?

He bushes his eyebrows and scowls upon me,
His stick with a click beats the walk as we pass,
His scowl wastes the bloom of a smile that I see
And freezes it stiff on the lips of the lass.
He raises his hat with a Chesterfield air,
The sweep of his arm is chill courtesy's sign;
But his eyes pass me by with an unseeing stare.
If blood were for spilling, he'd dabble in mine.

There's pride in the white crest, uplifted so high,
Defiant the tilt of the old beaver hat.
Contempt in the stare of the unknowing eye,
And the click of his stick with its rat-a-tat-tat.
He spurns me, he scorns me, he hates me, — he knows
I'm nursing in secret some pilfering plan
To pluck from its parental arbor the rose
That rests on the arm of this fussy old man.

So he passes me by with an unseeing stare,
His cane beats defiantly rat-a-tat-tat.
He trumpets his nose with a furious blare,
There's pride in the tilt of his worn beaver hat.
Love may laugh at locksmiths, nor hazard a care
In bridging most gulfs of despair with a span,
But Love needs more courage than mine has, I swear,
To laugh at this crotchety, fussy old man.