Waste Paper

Waste Paperby H. P. Lovecraft
Story copied from the Wikisource.
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A Poem of Profound Insignificance
==I==
Out of the reaches of illimitable nightThe blazing planet grew, and forc'd to lifeUnending cycles of progressive strifeAnd strange mutations of undying lightAnd boresome books, than hell's own self more triteAnd thoughts repeated and become a blight,And cheap rum-hounds with moonshine hootch made tight,And quite contrite to see the flight of fright so brightI used to ride my bicycle in the nightWith a dandy acetylene lantern that cost $3.00In the evening, by the moonlight, you can hear those darkies singingMeet me tonight - in dreamland... BAH!I used to sit on the stairs of the house where I was bornAfter we left it but before it was soldAnd play on a zobo with two other boys.We called ourselves the Blackstone Military BandWon't you come home, Bill Bailey, won't you come home?In the spring of the year, in the silver rainWhen petal by petal the blossoms fallAnd the mocking birds callAnd the whippoorwill sings, Marguerite.The first cinema show in our town opened in 1906At the old Olympic, which was then call'd Park,And moving beams shot weirdly thro' the darkAnd spit tobacco seldom hit the mark.Have you read Dickens' American Notes?My great-great-grandfather was born in a white houseUnder green trees in the countryAnd he used to believe in religion and the weather.
== II ==
"Shantih, shantih, shantih"..."Shanty House"Was the name of a novel by I forget whomPublished serially in the "All-Story Weekly"Before it was a weekly. Advt.Disillusion is wonderful, I've been told,And I take quinine to stop a coldBut it makes my ears... always...Always ringing in my ears...It is the ghost of the Jew I murdered that Christmas dayBecause he played "Three O'Clock in the Morning" in the flat above me...Three O'Clock in the morning, I've danc'd the whole night throughDancing on the graves in the graveyardWhere life is buried; life and beautyLife and art and love and dutyAh, there, sweet cutie.Stung!Out of the night that covers meBlack as the pit from pole to poleI never quote things straight except by accident.Sophistication! Sophistication!You are the idol of our nationEach fellow hasFallen for jazzAnd we'll give the past a merry razzThro' the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumberAnd fellow-guestship with the glutless worm.Next stop is 57th St. - 57th St. the next stop.Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring,And the governor-general of Canada is Lord ByngWhose ancestor was shot or hung,I forget which, the good die young.Here's to your ripe old age,Copyright, 1847, by Joseph Miner,Entered according to act of Congress.
==III==
In the office of the librarian of CongressAmerica was discovered in 1492This way out.No, lady, you gotta change at Washington St. to the Everett train.Out in the rain on the elevatedCrated, sated, all mismated.Twelve seats on this bench,How quaint.In a shady nook, beside a brook, two lovers stroll along.Express to Park Ave., Car Following.No, we had it cleaned with the sand blast.I know it ought to be torn down.Before the bar of a saloon there stood a reckless crew,When one said to another, "Jack, this message came for you.""It may be from a sweetheart, boys," said someone in the crowd,And here the words are missing... but Jack cried out aloud:"It's only a message from home, sweet home,From loved ones down on the farmFond wife and mother, sister and brother..."Bootleggers all and you're anotherIn the shade of the old apple tree'Neath the old cherry tree sweet MarieThe Conchologist's First BookBy Edgar Allan PoeStubbed his toeOn a broken brick that didn't showOr a banana peelIn the fifth reelBy George CreelIt is to laughAnd quaffIt makes you stout and haleAnd all my days I'll sing the praiseOf Ivory SoapHave you a little T. S. Eliot in your house?
==IV==
The stag at eve had drunk his fillThe thirsty hart look'd up the hillAnd craned his neck just as a feelerTo advertise the Double-Dealer.William Congreve was a gentlemanO art what sins are committed in thy nameFor tawdry fame and fleeting flameAnd everything, ain't dat a shame?Mah Creole Belle, ah lubs yo' well;Aroun' mah heart you hab cast a spellBut I can't learn to spell pseudocracyBecause there ain't no such word.And I says to Lizzie, if Joe was my fellerI'd teach him to go to dances with thatRat, bat, cat, hat, flat, plat, fatFry the fat, fat the fryYou'll be a drug-store by and by.Get the hook!Above the lines of brooding hillsRose spires that reeked of nameless ills,And ghastly shone upon the sightIn ev'ry flash of lurid lightTo be continued.No smoking.Smoking on four rear seats.Fare win return to 5 cents after August 1stExcept outside the Cleveland city limits.In the ghoul-haunted Woodland of WeirStrangers pause to shed a tear;Henry Fielding wrote "Tom Jones"And cursed be he that moves my bones.I saw the Leonard-Tendler fightFarewell, farewell, O go to hell.Nobody homeIn the shantih.
Category:HPL
Category:Poetry