Poem: The Passionate Poet by Frank Morton

I dearly long -- perhaps you've learned
   The process, and will let me know it --
To stop a fierce and curdling wail
   And muzzle a forsaken poet.

There was a girl who loved him once,
   The one girl that his whimsy needed;
But she was very wicked, for
   She tired some several months ere he did.

So now his tears wet all my street,
   A nuisance, whatsoe'er the weather;
And much I long to bury him
   And his confounded dreams together.

There never was a girl, I know,
   Was worth such loud, incessant bleating;
But he is deaf when I deride,
   And adamant to my entreating.

He tells me that her eyes were blue
   (Blue eyes are cheap enough, I'm thinking),
Her heart was made of ice. And so
   (Between ourselves) he took to drinking.

And now he whimpers night and day,
   Of faith forsworn and dear hopes stricken.
I offer sympathy; but when
   He keeps it up, I have to sicken.

He says her feet were very small,
   (Small-footed every neat cocotte is)
He weeps, and then I ache to grip
   Him hard about the epiglottis.

I'm no anatomist. Maybe,
   That's not just where a fellow's throat is.
I only know a man who pines
   For such a jade a sorry goat is.

So much I yarn (if you've the trick
   Of doing this, pray let me know it)
To stop his howling once for all,
   And muzzle this despairing poet.

First published in The Bulletin, 13 June 1912

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on December 3, 2005 10:55 AM.

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