Above Photographs of swallowtail butterfly larvae in our backyard in Iowa, affectionately referred to as "poop mimics." Photo by Mary Snyder Behrens. The "poetry mimic" below is another stinker.
Gene Fowler, "Camouflage" in Our Paper. November 10, 1917, p. 533 (originally published in the Denver Labor Bulletin)—
The shades of night were falling fast
As through a busy street there passed
A dame dressed up like seventeen,
But fifty years, at least, she'd seen—
Camouflage!
An old sport, with a foxy vest,
Wears one huge diamond on his chest.
His friends admire him for his taste.
They do not know it is of paste—
Camouflage
The actress with the Titian hair
Makes hearts beat hard and fond eyes stare.
Ah! Those rare tints of auburn locks
Rise deftly from some drugstore box:
Camouflage!
The bunk man seeketh him a hick
And slippeth him a neat gold brick.
The sucker thinks he's bought in snug.
Ho, Warden, ho! another bug—
Camouflage
The girl you woo is small and sweet
You lay your love there at her feet
A year you're married. Ring, bells, ring.
Ah! tell me. Death, where is thy sting?
Camouflage!
And so, in every vale of life.
(Look out, you're eating with your knife),
You find the things that are, just ain't!
(Get out another coat of paint)—
Camouflage