'A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss'

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

I'd sooner gather anything,Like primroses, or news perhaps,Or even wool (when sufferingA momentary mental lapse);But could forgo my share of moss,Nor ever realise 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 yetWith a desire to roll around;Theirs is a stationary role.(A joke,--and feeble on the whole.)

But, if I were a stone, I swearI'd sooner move and view the World,Than sit and grow the greenest hairThat ever Nature combed and curled.I see no single saving graceIn being known as 'Mossyface'!

Instead, I might prove useful forA weapon in the hand of Crime,A paperweight, a milestone, orA missile at Election-time;In each capacity I couldDo quite incalculable good.

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

At concerts, too, if you prefer,I could prevent your growing deafBy silencing the amateurBefore 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!