Euripides, of ancient Greece,
Excelled in things dramatic;
He could sit down and write a piece
Mild tempered or emphatic;
The dramatists of modern days—
No matter how much they write—
Can never equal Rippy’s ways,
For he was quite a playwright.
When Rippy took his pen in hand
The scenes would flow like magic;
Though humor came at his command
His penchant was the tragic;
He often wrote a little speech
That was extremely pleasant—
His jests were lasting—all and each
Are still used at the present.
Euripides was serious—
He thought he had a mission.
He said, “By writing thus and thus
I’ll elevate the Grecian.”
However, though he oft produced
His works in manner spurty,
He never wrote a thing to boost
The vogue of ten, twent’, thirty.
In fact, his works could have been played
In goodly style with no girls—
He never used the soubrette maid
Or based his play on show girls;
And, this for old Euripides:
In none of all his dramas
Did he observe the modern pleas
For chorus in pajamas.
Euripides was Athens’ Fitch
Or her Augustus Thomas—
It’s really hard to say just which,
But he was full of promise.
It’s time that Rippy had his due
And got his share of glory,
For royalties he never knew
And no press agent’s story.