The tradesman at the poet's door
Was red with righteous ire,
A thumping sheaf of bills he bore.
Said he: "I've served it oft before.
This sort of thing would tire
The patience of old Job.
Are we To bill you to eternity?"
The poet on the tradesman smiled.
"Why should you mind?" said he.
"If I do not? I am not wild.
Indeed, I am quite reconciled.
Send in your bills to me.
I find them excellent anon
To rough-cast little poems on."
First published in The Bulletin, 13 September 1917
