Classic Poem

I HAVE a friend who has a shelf
Of books he did not buy himself.
They're precious tomes, bound rich and fine.
I love them, for they're mostly mine.
Whene'er he comes to visit me
Some book of mine he's sure to see.
“I'll borrow this if you don't mind,”
He says. I hate to be unkind,
And so, ere I protest, my book
Is in the pocket of that crook.
He has my Works of Ethel Dell,
My copy of Lucille as well,
My fav'rite Bradshaw's Railroad Guide,
My Wentworth's Algebra beside,
My Manual of Army Cooks,
And all my Elsie Dinsmore books.

At last I hit upon a plan
To teach a lesson to this man.

The next time that I went to call
Upon my friend, upon his wall
I saw some paintings hanging there,
Some precious prints and etchings rare.
“Say, Bill,” I murmured with a smile,
“I'd like to take these for a while.
I'll send them back within a week.”
Before he had a chance to speak
I slipped the pictures from the wall
And took them home—the frames and all.

A few days later, calling there,
I saw Bill's fav'rite Morris Chair.
I said: “This chair is just my style.
I think I'll take it for a while.”
The chair I carried to my door.
I left Bill sitting on the floor.
Then next I hired a moving van
And drove to Bill's and said: “Old man,
Some folks are dropping in to-night,
I'd like to entertain them right.
A good piano's hard to find.
I'll borrow yours if you don't mind.
My own is old and out of tune.
I'll send it back to you quite soon.”

So now, at night, when home I stay,
On Bill's fine baby grand I play,
Or, lounging in his Morris Chair,
Those paintings and those etchings rare
I gaze at, dangling from their hooks,
And say: “Well, Bill can keep my books.”