Revisionist Poetry – The Lay of Copernicus Wiffledown (comedic), v.4

Copernicus Wiffledown was much admired—
a well-to-do gentleman with a bulging pouch
like a squirrel’s briefcase, stuffed with oddments:
a clock that ran backwards for sentimental people,
a rubber chicken for emergencies, a mitten with a pocket,
and tins of biscuits stamped “For Immediate Surprise.”

They called him the Christmas-Day Scrooge—
not for stinginess but for his solemn inventory:
he kept a ledger (inked in peppermint), tallied each ribbon,
catalogued every bow with the seriousness of a magistrate.
Then, at the appointed chime—usually after tea—he’d fling the lot,
a ceremonial spill that rained toys and etiquette upon the square.

Once he confessed his pockets had been empty—true horror—
so he vowed to overcompensate with theatrical excess:
he handed out hats that whistled when you sneezed,
lent spare beards for surprise birthdays, taught pigeons to applaud.
The arithmetic of consolation, he insisted, was simple:
one absurd gift + one baffled grin = municipal merriment.

Years later his coat wore holes with honest pride; he gave the pouch away—
not to a charity, but to the fellow who ran the bakery (for safekeeping).
The town, still sticky with confetti, named a lane for him: Wiffledown Way.
Now to “wiffle” is to count your kindnesses like small coins, then spend them loudly—
and children whisper, when a bell rings oddly, “Somebody’s wiffled again,”
which is how legends begin: with ledger, rubber chicken, and a perfectly timed flourish.