The God of Common-Sense
My Daddy used to wallop me for every small offense:
“Its takes a hair—brush back,” said he, “to teach kids common—sense.”
And still to—day I scarce can look a hair—brush in the face.
Without I want in sympathy to pat a tender place.
For Dad declared with unction: “Spare the brush and spoil the brat.”
The dear old man! What e’er his faults he never did do that;
And though a score of years have gone since he departed hence,
I still revere his deity, The God of Common—sense.
How often I have played the ass (Man’s universal fate),
Yet always I have saved myself before it was too late;
How often tangled with a dame —you know how these things are,
Yet always had the gumption not to carry on too far;
Remembering that fancy skirts, however high they go,
Are not to be stacked up against a bunch of hard—earned dough;
And sentiment has little weight compared with pounds and pence,
According to the gospel of the God of Common—sense.
Oh blessing on that old hair—brush my Daddy used to whack
With such benign precision on the basement of my back.
Oh blessings on his wisdom, saying: "Son, don’t play the fool,
Let prudence be your counselor and reason be your rule.
Don’t get romantic notions, always act with judgment calm,
Poetical emotions ain’t in practice worth a damn/
let solid comfort be your goal, self—interest your guide. . . ."
Then just as if to emphasize, whack! whack! the brush he plied.
And so I often wonder if my luck is Providence,
or just my humble tribute to the God of Common—sense.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
