"I'll write no more!" the poet said,
Sore goaded by the critics' sneers --
Down drooped his fine leonine head,
His eyes were dim with unshed tears.
"Oh little men of little minds!
Oh madly throbbing heart and brain!"
He hurled his papers to the winds
(His ink went through a window pane).
"I'll write no more" -- he seemed to choke --
Then broke in twain his trusty quill,
When, lo! a voice behind him spoke:
"'Ere, wot about this washin' bill?"
The poet's soul flamed in his cheek,
He turned the hireling base to quell --
Then sitting down with aspect meek,
Began once more to write like --
First published in The Bulletin, 6 February 1908
