A Quate So Story
Anonymous

A youth who wore canary spats,
The very latest thing in hats,
And, on his cheeks, two little mats
Of whisker (fluff, at any rate),
Climbed languidly into the train,
As if exhausted by the strain,
And when I said it looked like rain,
He answered, ‘Quate!’

Disturbed by his reply, I said,
‘Possibly it might snow, instead,’
He murmured, ‘Quate,’ and turned his head
As if he found my accents grate!
At this, I ceased to be polite,
And asked him frankly, ‘Am I right
In thinking what you mean is, “Quite”?’
He answered, ‘Quate!’

I shouted, ‘Do you realise
Of all the asinine replies
Yours is the worst one could devise?
And, further, I should like to state
You mispronounce the wretched word,
Making it ludicrous, absurd!’
Again the awful thing occurred:
He muttered, ‘Quate!’

I rose in wrath; I kicked and beat
The languid youth from head to feet,
And stuffed him underneath the seat;
And then, in tones made hoarse with hate,
I thundered, ‘Are you satisfied
That it was fully time you died?’
Bloodless of face and filmy-eyed
He whispered, ‘Quate!’