Phantasmagoria, and other poems, by Lewis Carroll

Size and Tears

When on the sandy shore I sit,

Beside the salt sea-wave,

And fall into a weeping fit

Because I dare not shave —

A little whisper at my ear

Enquires the reason of my fear.

I answer “If that ruffian Jones

Should recognise me here,

He’d bellow out my name in tones

Offensive to the ear:

He chaffs me so on being stout

(A thing that always puts me out).”

Ah me! I see him on the cliff!

Farewell, farewell to hope,

If he should look this way, and if

He’s got his telescope!

To whatsoever place I flee,

My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,

I meet him out at dinner;

And when I’ve found some charming fair,

And vowed to die or win her,

The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)

Is sure to come and cut me out!

The girls (just like them!) all agree

To praise J. Jones, Esquire:

I ask them what on earth they see

About him to admire?

They cry “He is so sleek and slim,

It’s quite a treat to look at him!”

They vanish in tobacco smoke,

Those visionary maids —

I feel a sharp and sudden poke

Between the shoulder-blades —

“Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!”

(I told you he would find me out!)

“My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!”

“No more it is, my boy!

But if it’s YOURS, as I infer,

Why, Brown, I give you joy!

A man, whose business prospers so,

Is just the sort of man to know!

“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here —

I’d best get out of reach:

For such a weight as yours, I fear,

Must shortly sink the beach!” —

Insult me thus because I’m stout!

I vow I’ll go and call him out!

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:52