The Mysterious Misapprehension Concerning a Man in Our Town

There was a man in our town,Half beggar, half rapscallion,Who, just because his eyes were brown,Was thought to be Italian:And, though with much insistenceHe said that people erred,And bitterly to ItalyHe frequently referred,The false report, as is the wayOf false reports, had come to stay!

So every one who’d been to RomeBy aid of Cook’s or Gaze’s,Would call upon him at homeTo flaunt Italian phrases.“Capite Questa lingua?”The inquiry would be:“Pochissimo? Benissimo!Vi prego, ditemi,Siete voi contento qua,Lontano dall’ Italia?”

The victim, plunged in deep disgust,Grew nervous, could not slumber;Said he, “I’m called Italian, justBecause my eyes are umber,And if this persecutionIs ever to be stopped,Some stern and stoic, hard, heroicCourse I must adopt!”And so, to everyone’s surprise,He calmly scratched out both his eyes!

The neighbors said: “So strange a thingMight seem to be an omen.We thought his wits were wandering,But now we know they’re Roman!”And so at him by legions,By bevies, hosts, and herds,Professors, purists, tramps, and touristsScreamed Italian words.Perceiving all he’d done was vain,He scratched his eyesight in again.

The moral: If your neighbors sayYou’re one thing or another,You’ll find there isn’t any wayTheir predudice to smother.What matter if they think youFrom Italy or Greece?I beg you, treasure no displeasure:Bow and hold your peace.Like Omar, underneath the bowYou’ll find there’s paradise enow!