It is so easy to sit down and write a string of
rhyme that often poets are hard put to get some prose in time; they’ve dwelt so
long with mother muse that prose is very shy, and when they try to round him up
he merely winks his eye. So then they scratch their shaggy heads, and think and
think and think, and plunge their pencils thoughtlessly into the pot of ink. They
bite their nails and tear their hair, and heave prodigious sighs, the while the
fiendish printer man for “copy” loudly cries. And finally, with bulging eyes, in
desperation’s throes, they take a bunch of easy rhyme and write it out as prose.
They hope to fool the editor, and fool the readers too, but shame upon the poet
skate, who such a thing would do.
Pub.
May 20, ‘09
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