City of Mush

February 1, 2017 § Leave a comment

January 18th 1878:

The beautiful mud

Oh, the mud, the mud, the beautiful mud,

how our feet go down with a sickening thud

into the slippery, slimy slush

that fills the streets of the city of mush.

It lies on the crossings, it covers each walk,

It forms the chief topic of gossip and talk.

It bespatters the person from ankles to nose

And dooms to disgrace all our favorite clothes.

Don’t talk about storms that shutter whole fleets.

The sea has no peril like mud in the street.

It discounts the smallpox, and makes us profane

while we flounder in puddles and struggle in vain.

I could live in a land where rattlesnakes creep,

Could smile amid perils far out on the Deep.

Could be happy where troubles rush in like a flood,

anywhere, anywhere out of the mud.

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