This Bowl is not a cookie jar
Nor a porcelain pot for pickles;
But it is a thunder-mug
For Brisk nocturnal trickles!
This portable, versatile vessel
Artistic, or very plain
Was a blessing to the occupant
To ease the night-time strain.
It was easily clutched by a frantic hand
When the urgent call came ringing
And the muted vibrations
Could set the crock'ry singing.
On frosty nights, the chilling rim
Near shocked the sagging rear;
Thus, timid souls with dainty skin
Oft' viewed this pot with fear.
They perched in regal splendor
Upon this porcelain throne;
And endless thoughts were sifted
Of problems in the home.
For musical notes rang down the scale
From peals to thunderous rumbles;
And saved some sleepy footsteps
O'er trails beset with stumbles.
It changed the chore of midnight strolls
For half a lot or more;
And hazards of the winding trail
Beneath the glinting star.
Disposal was a dreary drudge
Where no one volunteered;
So mothers had the dismal chore
Ere morning sun appeared.
When tub and privy moved indoors
To occupy a closet,
The thunder-mug lay silent
And receive no more deposit.
Give us friends of yester-year
But not the sledge and axe;
Give us comforts that we love
But not a crushing tax.
Let us twang our heart strings
With one nostalgic tug;
But save us from the usage
Of the gleaming Thunder-Mug!
We often yearn for "The Good Old Days"
Before life's grand completion;
But the Thunder-Mug is one device
We'd ask for a firm deletion!!!