Classic Poem

The poker lost, poor Susan storm'd
And all the rites of rage perform'd;
As scolding; crying, swearing, sweating,
Abusing, figitting and fretting
“Nothing but villainy and thieving;
Good heavens! What a world we live in!
If I don't find it in the morning,
I'll surely give my master warning.
He'd better far shut up his doors
Than keep such good-for-nothing whores,
For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,
We vartous bodies cannot thrive”
Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;
Misfortunes never come alone,
But tread each other's heels in throngs,
For the next day she lost the tongs:
The salt-box, cullender and grate,
Soon shar'd the same untimely fate.
In vain the vails and wages spent
On new ones—for the new ones went.
They'd been (she swore) some dev'l or witch in
To rob and plunder all the kitchin.
One night she to her chamber crept
(Where for a month she had not slept,
Her master being to her seeming
A better playfellow than dreaming)
Curse on the author of these wrongs!
In her own bed she found the tongs.
(Hang Thomas for an idle joker!)
And there, good lack! she found the poker,
With salt-box, pepper-box and kettle,
And all the culinary mettle—
Be warn'd, ye fair, by Susan's crosses,
Keep chaste, and guard yourself from losses;
For if young girls delight in kissing,
No wonder, that the poker's missing.