Our Parodic Friends

When we’re hard put at writing verse

Of subjects cannot think,

‘Tis then we’re driven to the verge

     Of suicide or drink.

We sit and madly tear our hair,

     Our brains seem stiff and numb;

In vain we dig Parnassas o’er

     For verse that will not come.

At last, when hope is almost fled,

     Old friends come to our aid;

Maud Muller bobs upon the scene,

     That good old country maid.

We dash a parody on Maud,

     Which barely lets us through;

And then we thank our lucky stars

     That Maud popped into view.

Then Mary and her little lamb

     Hop gaily on the scene;

Had it not been for them sometimes

     Where would we bards have been?

Scorn not Maud Muller,

     Nor, Mary’s lamb that bobs;

They may have lost us lasting fame,

     But they have saved our jobs.

Sept. 24, ‘10