Outovplace
There’s a very strange country called Outovplace,
(I’ve been there quite often, have you?)
Where the people can’t find the things they want,
And hardly know what to do.
If a boy’s in a hurry, and wants his cap,
Or a basin to wash his face,
He never can find that on its nail,
Or this in its proper place.
His shoe hides far away under the lounge;
His handkerchief’s gone astray;
Oh! how can a boy get off to school,
If he’s always bothered this way?
Oh! a very queer country is Outovplace—
(Did you say you had been there?)
Then you’ve seen, like me, a slate on the floor
And a book upon the stair.
You think they are easy to find, at least!
O, yes! if they would but stay
Just there till they’re wanted; but then they don’t;
Alas! that isn’t the way.
When a boy wants his hat, he sees his ball,
As plain as ever can be;
But when he has time for a game, not a sign
Of bat or a ball finds he.
Sometimes a good man is just off to the train,
(That is, it is time to go);
And he can’t put his hand on his Sunday hat!
It surely must vex him, I know.
If somebody wants to drive a nail,
It’s “Where is the hammer, my dear?”
And so it goes, week in, week out,
And truly all the year.
How ’twould gladden the women of Outovplace,
If the boys and girls themselves
Should wake up some morning determined quite
To use hooks, closets and shelves.