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 A flashlight, my friend, was the cause of it all.
It belonged to one Rupert Revere—
That swaggering buster whose penchant for bluster
Was known in the town, far and near.
One night, with his flashlight held tight in his hand,
He was walking with Charlie Carew,
When his tongue started wagging with boasting and bragging,
As only old Rupert's could do.
"The beam of my flashlight is mightily strong,"
He remarked to his buddy with pride.
"I bet I could clamber its beamstalk of amber
Clear up to the moon, if I tried!"
"I dare you to do it!" cried Charlie Carew;
"Sure, a powerful flashlight is that,
But I'm doubting, old timer, you're able to climb `er
As far as the top of my hat!"
"Hold the flashlight, my friend," Rupert promptly replied.
Then (remarkable though this may seem),
Revere, very solemn, grasped firmly its column,
And started to climb up the beam!
Yes, hand over hand, like a sailor he went,
Full of courage, ambition, and hope,
And quick as you please, with the greatest of ease,
He shinnied that shimmering rope.
No doubt he'd have reached either Venus or Mars,
Little knowing for sure which was which,
But Carew got excited and over-affrighted . . .
And foggily turned off the switch!
What happened to Rupert, the brassy, the bold?
Well, it wasn't a matter for mirth.
His coattails unraveled as downward he traveled,
Heading head-first for the earth!
His end might have been quite unpleasant, no doubt,
For he landed, ka-phoom, in his very own room
And awoke seeing stars on the floor.
Not one to give up was old Rupert Revere,
Although dazed by the bump on his head.
Still filled with ambition, he made it his mission
To clamber right back into bed.
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