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GUITERMAN, Arthur

The Demon Tutivillus / Is armed with whips of snakes; / The festering bacillus / Of trivial mistakes, / On any slip whatever / He leaps, with bitter jokes, / To prove how murh more clever / He is than other folks. / The Demon Tutivillus / Derides without restraint; / His mockings nearly kill us / That say “to who" or "ain't"; / Our heresies in grammar / And such important things / He jeers with raucous clamor / Until the welkin rings. / The Demon Tutivillus, / The scholar's fiendish foe, / Conveys, as coals to grill us, / Our blunders down below; / Our oversights and errors, / The words we couldn't spell, / Among pedantic terrors / We'll meet again in hell! / The Demon Tutivillus, / Is really mighty small; / Why need we let him fill us / With any fears at all? / As inspirations thrill us / We'll sing our valiant songs, / And Mister Tutivillus / Can go where he belongs!

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