My appetite is ne'er appeased,
I feed on poets' verses,
And nothing makes me better pleased
Than hearing poets' curses;
Their loud reveilings are to me
The sweetest music that can be.
An ode to me is dear indeed,
I sup on Lyrics nightly;
While Serenades are splendid feed,
As, too, are Ballads sprightly:
But most of all I love to eat
An Epic with iambic feet.
Ah, how the great heroic lines
Slip down my maw, apacious,
My stomach (beg your pardon!) pines
With appetite rapacious,
For long-wrought Epics of great sound
That all the rhythmic laws confound.
The thing that I object to most
Is lack of range in flavor,
For Grey-haired Mothers served on toast
Each morning lose their savor,
While poems done in praise of Spring
Make me as sick as anything.
And Stockman's graves are not the stuff
One wants to choose for daily fare,
A very little is enough
Of Broken Hearts that want repair:
I only wish my poets would
Sing something better understood.
For instance, Lays of Lady Birds
That sigh to stroke an Oyster's soul!
Or Platypi whose choice of words
Offends a widowed lump of coal:
The aching hanker of a star
To drink pale brandy at the bar.
So many things remain unsung,
I feel like singing them myself --
The gold pyjamas Pharaoh flung
At Mrs Pharaoh, seeking pelf:
Or any other theme there be
That has the sauce of novelty.
But all in vain. And long before
The FIG LEAF BANNER went to press:
With Father Adam, Editor,
And Eve as Fashion Editress.
I've heard the same old thing
That poets still prefer to sing.
Yes, here they come -- one Nuptial Song,
Three Lyrics to a Lady's Eyes;
Sonnets an even hundred strong,
Six Ballads full of Lovers' Sighs;
And ten Young Ladies weeping tears
About the Wasted Dreams of Years.
I'm chock-a-block and full and sick
Of all the wreckage of the Muses.
And yet, no matter how I kick,
Fate other job to me refuses:
So all I ask, and loud I ask it
Don't overwork the poor old "basket".
First published in The Bulletin, 28 May 1914
