The Poet

He wrote a verse

     About a maid;

‘Twas deep and terse

     And well displayed.

The words he used

Were long and fine

And, he enthused

     O’er every line.

He said her hair

     Was bright as gold

Her cheeks were fair

     As queens of old.

Her lips were red

     As reddest wine,

And shapely head,

     Her form divine.

He sent it out

     To magazines

‘Twas put to rout

     Mid stormy scenes.

No matter where

He sent the pome,

It met despair

      And wandered home.

And then he wrote

      A mongrel rhyme

About a goat

      And can of brine.

It made a hit

      And brought him dough;

That’s all of it –

      What do you know?

Nov. 23, 1910