Robert William Service (16 January 1874 - 11 September 1958 / Preston)
'A shilling's worth of quinine, please,'
The customer demanded.
The druggist went down on his knees
And from a cupboard handed
The waiting man a tiny flask:
'Here, Sir, is what you ask.'
The buyer paid and went away,
The druggist rubbed his glasses,
Then sudden shouted in dismay:
'Of all the silly asses!'
And out into the street he ran
To catch the speeding man.
Cried he: 'That quinine that you bought,
(Since all may errors make),
I find was definitely not,--
I sold you strychnine by mistake.
Two shillings is its price, and so
Another bob you owe.'
Read poems about / on: running
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