David John Scott
John A. Calhoun, My Joe John - Poem by David John Scott
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, 'I wonder what you mean?'
You're always getting in some scrape and getting off your spleen;
Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go;
You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name;
It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame
By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know,
Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the 'Turkey' let alone;
My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own.
'There's nothing in a name,' John, and this you ought to know,
That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour;
Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour.
But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go,
Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name
Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim;
So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low,
And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice;
And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice
And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show,
And use those 'open eyes' of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools
Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools;
And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low,
By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace,
And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase,
That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-
But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.
Comments about John A. Calhoun, My Joe John by David John Scott
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe