Down Under

A’s for Australia, as everyone knows;
B’s for the blackfellow washing the clothes.
C is for casket—not funeral pottery,
But the ticket you buy in the national lottery.
D is a deadly demonstrable thing,
The dullness a down-under Sunday can bring.
E’s the equator that lies to the north;
F is the freighter that carried me forth.
G is the goods train which, strange to relate,
Is commonly called, in our country, a freight.
H is humidity, never quite lacking;
I’s the ironmonger, who sells saws for hacking.
J is the jumbuck, a junior sheep;
K the koala who’s mostly asleep.
L is liana, a tough jungle vine;
M is for mutton, and you can have mine.
(I’ve left out the mercer, a dealer in dry-goods;
What we need most’s a merchant in gin-, scotch-and rye-goods.)
N is New Guinea, terrain orchidaceous;
O a contraction of “my goodness gracious.”
P is Purcell feeling better and better;
Q is a stinking, unrhymable letter.
R is the native rum, clearly unthinkable;
S is the soda that makes the stuff drinkable.
T is the tram, locomotion adventurous,
That makes Boston trolleys look twentieth-centurous.
U, V, and W, easy to see,
Are as hard to dispose of as X, Y, and Z.

As by your spring-warm window now you sit,
If this be doggrel, make ihe most of it.