My muse is not amusing, and I'm constantly abusing
   All the gods, becasue I cannot write a decent line of rhyme.
And old Pegasus is baulking, and in spite of all my talking
   He refuses absolutely to keep any sort of time.

And I'm in an awful muddle, for the girl I long to cuddle
   Won't consider my advances till I write a bit of verse,
And I've struggled with each letter, but instead of getting better,
   It appears to me I'm surely getting worse and worse and worse.

Oh, I'm sick of this endeavour, for I am not very clever;
   And the muses seem to bear me quite a personal dislike.
And the way I mix the phrases make sme wish the thing to blazes;
   If the rhyme become much harder I shall feel inclined to strike.

Let me see, what's next, I wonder?  Oh, I'm sure to make a blunder,
   And I feel quite sick and dizzy, and my head is in a whirl,
Now I want a rhyme for "sweeter."  Let's see - "neater," "fleeter,"
      "greet 'er," "chea" --
   Oh, dash the thing!  I'll chuck it up and find another girl!

"Den"
The Gadfly, 21 November 1906