If Browning only were here,
This yule-ish time o’ the year—
This mule-ish time o’ the year,—
Stubbornly still refusing
To add to the rhymes we’ve been using
Since the first Christmas-glee
(One might say) chantingly
Rendered by rudest hinds
Of the pelt-clad shepherding kinds
Who didn’t know Song from b-U-double-l’s-foot!—
Pah!—(Haply the old Egyptian ptah—
Though I’d hardly wager a baw-
Bee—or a bumble, for that—
And that’s flat!)
But the thing that I want to get at
Is a rhyme for Christmas—
Nay! nay! nay! nay! not isthmus—
The t- and the h- sounds covertly are
Gnawing the nice auricular
Senses until one may hear them gnar—
And the terminal, too, for mas, is mus,
So that will not do for us.
Try for it—sigh for it—cry for it—die for it!
O but if Browning were here to apply for it,
He’d rhyme you Christmas—
He’d make a mist pass
Over—something or other—
Or find you the rhyme’s very brother
In lovers that kissed fast
To baffle the moon,—as he’d lose the t-final
In fas-t as it blended with to (mark the spinal
Elision—tip-clipt as exquisitely nicely
And hyper-exactingly sliced to precisely
The extremest technical need): Or he’d twist glass,
Or he’d have a kissed lass,
Or shake neath our noses some great giant fist-mass—
No matter! If Robert were here, he could do it,
Though it took us till Christmas next year to see through it.
