Speaking of Hunting by Franklin P. Adams — Read

When a button rolls under the bureau / The search is a woeful affair; / And the humorous weekly describes it but meekly / In saying the hunter will swear. / But what is that limited anger? / The impotent rage of a cub! / I only grow what you could really call hot / When the soap slips under the tub.

I've sought through a time-table's mazes, / And sworn at the men who devise / That scare and delusion of hopeless confusion, / That intricate bundle of lies. / But never a hunt that was harder, / Be you or professor or dub, / Than that ill-fated jest -- I refer to the quest -- / When the soap falls back of the tub

My paste pot escapes almost daily; / My scissors I never can find; / And I am the rotter who loses a blotter / More often than if he were blind.

But sooner a myriad searches / Than go to the worry and troub. / That one little cake saponaceous can make / When the soap slips under the tub -- / Blank! Blank! / When the soap slips under the tub.