  Upon an island, all alone, They lived, in the Pacific; Somewhere within the Torrid Zone, Where heat is quite terrific. 'Twould shock you were I to declare The many things they did not wear, Altho' no doubt One's best without Such things in heat terrific. Though cannibals by birth were they, Yet, since they'd first existed, Their simple menu day by day Of such-like things consisted: Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams, And stews from freshly-gathered clams, Such things as these Were,—if you please,— Of what their fare consisted. Nor did their topic vary; Wild tales of gore they would rehearse, And talk of missionary. They'd gaze upon each other's joints, And indicate the tender points. Said one: "For us 'Tis dangerous To think of missionary." Well, on a day, upon the shore, As flotsam, or as jetsum, Some wooden cases,—ten, or more,— Were cast up. "Let us get some, And see, my friend, what they contain; The chance may not occur again," Said good Who-zoo. Said Tum-tum, "Do; We'll both wade out and get some." "Prime Missionary—tinned." Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink The man who made it sinned: He thus had labelled bloater-paste To captivate the native taste. He hoped, of course, This fraud to force On them. In this he sinned. Our simple friends knew naught of sin, They thought that this confection Was missionary in a tin According to direction. For very joy they shed salt tears. "'Tis what we've waited for, for years," Said they. "Hooray! We'll feast to-day According to direction." The tin and all had eaten. "Too salt," the other said, "for me; The flavour might be beaten." It was enough. Soon each one swore He'd missionary eat no more: Their tastes were cured, They felt assured This flavour might be beaten. And, should a missionary call To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all, And manners ornamental; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental.
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