Some scribes their tinkling verses string
In sweating diligence;
To charm a maiden's ear they sing --
I question not their sense,
Nor gibe I at the wanton waste,
But let them still adore.
I serve no damsel fair and chaste,
But weave my rhymes to please the taste
Of some grim, goggled, hairy-faced,
Prosaic editor.
Some poets in pursuit of fame
Burn midnight kerosene,
Grow pale and famished at the game;
But diligent and keen
Their tortued syllables they ile,
And stanzas polish o'er,
That Glory may be theirs a while,
I care not on whom Glory smile
If with my verses I beguile
The gloomy editor.
There is a bard who trims his line
For sour Prosterity.
He eats to-morrow's bread, drinks wine
Of Nineteen-twenty-three.
The mistress he pursues, poor boy,
Is always on before --
Anticipation is his joy.
My whole endeavor I employ
To be accepted by some coy,
Concurrent editor.
First published in The Bulletin, 15 November 1917
