[Janice D. Soderling]

I am still into Dickens, and a few chapters ago, I read the wonderful poem reproduced below which I cannot shake out of my mind. It was, as Pickwickian fans know, originally written by Mrs. Leo Hunter and declaimed by this esteemed lady at her fancy-dress breakfast. It goes:

Ode to an Expiring Frog

Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing:
Can I unmoved, see thee dying
*****On a log
*****Expiring frog.

Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
*****With a dog,
*****Expiring frog.

I was so capitvated by the depth and grace, that I thought I would try my hand at this exquisite received form (of which I do not know the name).

Alas, my attempt was not as successful as Mrs. Leo Hunter's, and I am sure not as successful as renditions still in the keyboards of Eratospherians. But for what it is worth (one Tanzanian shilling), I submit it respectfully and invite others to create a poem in this form about an animal (or not an animal) to brighten the long winter night of Sweden, Norway, Finland, northern Canada and Alaska and even Iceland, Siberia and China, if anyone is lurking there.

My poem:

What the Stewing Hen Said to the Spring Chicken

As I view thee proudly clucking
Ceaselessly high-muck-a-mucking
Because Old Red and you's been trucking
*****Once again
*****Young laying hen

I yearn to say, you feathered wanton,
raw newness is the sine qua non
for this sport, and Red is soon gone.
*****You'll cackle then,
*****Young laying hen.

Every man (and woman) to his (her) keyboard!

edited in It is not just the form, but the wonderful absurdity of Mrs. Leo Hunter's verse that is so delightful. It is Lewis Carroll-ish, Ogden Nash-ish.