A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

written by


« Reload image


I never understood, I own,
  What anybody (with a soul)
Could mean by offering a Stone
  This needless warning not to Roll;
And what inducement there can be
To gather Moss I fail to see.

I'd sooner gather anything,
  Like primroses, or news perhaps,
Or even wool (when suffering
  A momentary mental lapse);
But could forego my share of moss,
Nor ever realize the loss.

'Tis a botanical disease,
  And worthy of remark as such;
Lending a dignity to trees,
  To ruins a romantic touch.
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
But not worth writing home about.

Of all the Stones I ever met,
  In calm repose upon the ground,
I really never found one yet
  With a desire to roll around;
Theirs is a stationary role, --
(A joke,-- and feeble on the whole).

But, if I were a stone, I swear
  I'd sooner move and view the World
Than sit and grow the greenest hair
  That ever nature combed and curled.
I see no single saving grace
In being known as "Mossyface!"

Instead, I might prove useful for
  A weapon in the hand of Crime,
A paperweight, a milestone, or
  A missile at Election time;
In each capacity I could
Do quite incalculable good.

When well directed from the Pit,
  I might promote a welcome death,
If fortunate enough to hit
  Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth.
Who twice each day by the playhouse fills, --
(For further Notice See Small Bills).

At concerts, too, if you prefer,
  I could prevent your growing deaf,
By silencing the amateur
  Before she reached that upper F.;
Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
Restrain some local Kubelik.

Then, human stones, take my advice,
  (As you should always do, indeed);
This proverb may be very nice,
  But don't you pay it any heed,
And, tho' you make the critics cross,
Roll on, and never mind the moss.

© Harry Graham