Thunder Mug ~~~ By Owen Sanders

 

 

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!!!T