Yelchior, dressed in his black and his white
Sat down on his skinny old shanks
And sang, the old dear, without worry or fear--
And, too, I might add, without thanks.
Outlined on the rail by a bleary-eyed moon,
He sang to a distant Maltese;
Keeping time with his tail, he emitted a wail
In eleven malevolent keys.
When windows flew open and nightcaps leaned out,
He was thrilled to his flattered old roots,
And he took a deep bow when his mounting me-ow
Brought a thundering salvo of boots.
"They cannot but recognize genius like mine!"
Thought Yelchior, dodging a shoe;
"Since they all stay awake for my talented sake,
I will now rend an encore or two!"
All evening he sang, but as dawn staggered in,
(Worn out by the concert, I guess),
He finished content, and he thought as he went:
"I am surely a howling success!"