Category: Poems

They come of the snazziest stock in the land;
Their pedigree, I’m informed, fashions up grand;
Their poise almost never gets out of hand;
But they’re guilty of my pet personal hate,
For they don t turn their calendars up to date!

You can walk in their house–it’s as clean as a pin:
Everything has a place, and that place it is in;
It’s a home, you feel sure, that to heaven’s akin.
But these folks evidently aren’t sure WHEN it IS,
For the calendars quarrel like nobody’s biz!

You well knew as you entered, that August was “on”,
But one calendar tells you that snow’s on the lawn;
In the kitchen, however, the spring is just gone,
While the hallway assures you of bright autumn’s dawn.
The world is confused, so I feel, quite enough–
Folks SHOULD keep their calendars up to snuff.

A flick of the wrist serves a month, as a rule;
No special requirements, experience, or school
Are needed to cope with Pa Time’s forward drool;
But easy or difficult, some folks seem bent
On their calendars’ showing a month that is spent.

Oh they’re quite careful people–of that please be sure:
Impeccable natives; upright and heart-pure.
I’m certain they couldn’t a GOOD LIE conjure
Excepting, of course, for the ones on their walls–
That tell us that Christmas in MAY this year falls!

They’d be divine people, there isn’t a doubt
If they’d TURN ’em, or THROW all their CALENDARS OUT!!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 7, 1943