BLITHE, whistling lad who yesterevening stood Behind me on the Broadway subway's platform, Your disposition may be bad or good, Your will to pleasure may take this or that form. You whistled, I believe, "Poor Butterfly," (I've heard the tune, and once you seemed to strike it) Pray be not angry when I say that I Don't like it. I do not mind your piping off the key— I sometimes err myself in that direction— But when you whistle right in back of me, I claim the right to offer mild objection: Whistle whate'er you will, @3sans@1 let or check, To those who nightly pay the Shontsian nickels, But do it elsewhere, please, than down my neck. ... It tickles. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUL AND BODY by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE PAULO POST ORDINATIONEM by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |