ODE TO THE NORTH POLE
O Pole, O Pole, O glorious Pole!
To you I sing this song,
Where bedtime comes but once a year,
Since the nights are six months long.
Yes, the nights are six months long, my dears,
And the days are the same, you see,
So breakfast and supper each last a week,
And dinner sometimes three,
Then there's tea and lunch, and we sometimes munch
Occasional snacks between-
Such mountains of candies and cakes and pies
Have never before been seen,
Let the wild winds howl about the Pole,
Let the snowflakes swirl and swoop;
We're snug and warm and safe from harm
And they're bringing in the soup.
We'll sit at the table as long as we're able,
We'll rise and stretch, and then,
Since there's nothing to do but gobble and chew,
We'll sit right down again.
We'll tuck our napkins under our chins
To keep our waistcoats neat,
And then we'll eat and eat and eat
And eat and eat and eat.
P, AS IN PIG
This is the song of Frederick,
Patriot, poet and pig;
In pedigree, princely, patrician;
In appearance, both pleasing and plig*.
Precise he may be, and peculiar,
Preferring potatoes to pie
Yet his perfect uprightness and polished politeness
No person can ever deny.
In the pen where he pens all his poems
He will often sit pensive for hours,
Yet a panther in battle they've proved him,
This pig of great personal powers.
Of all pigs he's the pink of perfection
Of all pigs he's the pearl beyond price;
Though by no means the biggest,
Of all pigs he's the piggest,
And that will go everywhere twice.
*"Excuse me," said Freginald, "but what does 'plig' mean?"
"I made it up," said Freddy. "It just came to me. Sounds well,
don't you think?"