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Pagett M.P
The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where eath tooth-point goes.

The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.



Pagett, M.
P.
, was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith --
He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth";
Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.


March came in with the koil.
Pagett was cool and gay,
Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay.
"
March went out with the roses.
"Where is your heat?" said he.

"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.
P.


April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, --
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.

He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.


May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun.

All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.

Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever --slight, but he called it severe.


Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat --
Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart.

He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.


July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear.

'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.

He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears;
But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.


We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
(I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.

That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.


And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"
And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
Written by: Rudyard Kipling

Book: Shattered Sighs