PARDON ME, I DIDN'T CATCH THE NAME
The stranger you're gaily chatting with,
It's seven to five he's a Smith,
That his first name's John, it's six to two,
And it's even money that so are you.
The empires tumble and kingdoms fall,
The Smiths still answer the mating call,
Producing daughters, but mainly sons,
in fours and threes, and twos and ones.
And, yes, it's said with considerable pith
that here is a name to conjure with.
For Smith is simple and Smith is neat.
It can't be fumbled, it's too complete.
In the Hall of Fame or the telephone book,
its Smith as far as the eye can look.
There's "Gumboat," "Adam" and "Al: and John,"
And the "Village Smith" to continue on.
Remember the brothers "trade" and "mark,
"And "Kate" and the two on Noah's Ark.
The Social Register boasts of Smith.
The hotel registers dotted with
this oddly adaptable, useful name.
Smythe, Schmidt or Smith, it's all the same.
The Jones' struggle, the Johnson's strive.
The Browns lost out in the final drive.
In Dublin, Flanagan pokes at Flynnand
groans "Bedad, the Smiths are in."
From Edinburgh to Aberdeen,
Including the country in between,
MacDougall bows his head in shame,
as do MacTavish, Ross and Graeme,
To Smith, triumphant in any weather.
He rules the shamrock and the heather.
With little ado and loss of clamour,
and never a thought for Margaret Sanger,
He passed the word to his kin and kith,
and the "Emperor Jones” was "Mr. Smith."
In every region, in every nation,
Smith, the genius of infiltration,
mockingly bows and explodes the myth,
"The name's not legion. The name is "Smith!"