[All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore. All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him in.]
Simple is the man who fancies, In his fond and foolish heart, That the author weaves romances For the love of Art; That the poet's torch, ignited By some sacred inner fire, Is a spark of genius lighted To illume his lyre; That 'tis Honour or Ambition Prompts the bard to composition!
No celestial inspiration Gilds the poet's cheerless den, Kindles his imagination, Stirs his sluggish pen; No divine _afflatus_, blowing From some charmed Pierian font, Starts the springs of fancy flowing Like the spur of Want. This, poor Pegasus controlling, Sets the eye in frenzy rolling!
Not in search of fame or rank is He who drives this fretful quill, But his balance at the bank is Practically _nil_, And the cause, the motive, lying At his inspiration's roots, Is the sound of children crying, Crying out for boots; 'Tis the need for ready money Makes the humorist so funny!
[1] A species of pollack.
[2] Another species of pollack.
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
