Poetry Archives

‘A shilling’s worth of quinine, please,’
          The customer demanded.
The druggist went down on his knees
          And from a cupboard handed
The waiting man a tiny flask:
          ‘Here, Sir, is what you ask.’

The buyer paid and went away,
          The druggist rubbed his glasses,
Then sudden shouted in dismay:
          ‘Of all the silly asses!’
And out into the street he ran
          To catch the speeding man.

Cried he: ‘That quinine that you bought,
          (Since all may errors make),
I find was definitely not,—
          I sold you strychnine by mistake.
Two shillings is its price, and so
          Another bob you owe.’