A poet's crown is mostly made of thorns.
His throne is something fashioned like a cross.
His singing robes are mentioned in the bill
The tailor sends what time the month is young.
His rhymes are all of gold, but nosey men
Regard his paper as of little worth.
The washerlady cannot understand.
The grocer will not take his grandest ode
As an exchange for butter. Woe is me!
Old Homer singing when the world was young
Had better luck. The butcher at the gate
Paused wondering when he sang, and gave him forth
Three sausages for each hexameter.
The milkman called on Sappho, pouring out
Measures of milk for each stately line,
And also cream on Sundays. Ovid too,
In banishment beyond the Euxine wave,
Had but to troll a song of gods and loves,
And all the Gothic swine-herds rendered pork
In token of their homage. Times are changed.
The only things my golden rhymes will buy
Are Mary's smiles. If these were edible,
Then were my larder largely stocked indeed.
Yet must I sing. Mary is darning socks,
And when the ode has end her dear lips frame
Three golden words, three only, every time;
She bites a thread and murmurs, "It is nice."
First published in The Bulletin, 10 September 1908
