This Man Jones.

A poem by James Whitcomb Riley

This man Jones was what you'd call
A feller 'at had no sand at all;
Kind o' consumpted, and undersize,
And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes,
And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style,
And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile
'At kind o' give him away to us
As a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss.

Didn't take with the gang - well, no -
But still we managed to use him, though, -
Coddin' the gilly along the rout',
And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out -
Far I was one of the bosses then,
And of course stood in with the canvasmen;
And the way we put up jobs, you know,
On this man Jones jes' beat the show!

Ust to rattle him scandalous,
And keep the feller a-dodgin' us,
And a-shyin' round half skeered to death,
And afeerd to whimper above his breath;
Give him a cussin', and then a kick,
And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick -
Jes' far the fun of seem' him climb
Around with a head on most the time.

But what was the curioust thing to me,
Was along o' the party - let me see, -
Who was our "Lion Queen" last year? -
Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre? -
Well, no matter - a stunnin' mash,
With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash,
And a figger sich as the angels owns -
And one too many far this man Jones.

He'd allus wake in the afternoon,
As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune,
And there, from the time 'at she'd go in
Till she'd back out of the cage agin,
He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed -
'Specially when she come to "feed
The beasts raw meat with her naked hand" -
And all that business, you understand.

And it was resky in that den -
Far I think she juggled three cubs then,
And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash
Collar-bones far old Frank Nash;
And I reckon now she hain't fergot
The afternoon old "Nero" sot
His paws on her! - but as far me,
It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery: -

Kind o' remember an awful roar,
And see her back far the bolted door -
See the cage rock - heerd her call
"God have mercy!" and that was all -
Far they ain't no livin' man can tell
What it's like when a thousand yell
In female tones, and a thousand more
Howl in bass till their throats is sore!

But the keeper said 'at dragged her out,
They heerd some feller laugh and shout -
"Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!"
And yit she waked and smiled on us!
And we daren't flinch, far the doctor said,
Seein' as this man Jones was dead,
Better to jes' not let her know
Nothin' o' that far a week er so.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'This Man Jones.' by James Whitcomb Riley

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy