Thought it would be a good idea to have a web page to post poems and links to poems.
Behold the snubbing crew This lassie and her father too For notice eager I have passed in long review Toward me they seem to think it not due But still the situation moves along For simpering folly loves a varied song These songs of scorn may they be the last On half strung harps so mournful to the blast I chant and praise, Lord knows how high If justified the Lord knows why Next view we see proud prancing on her own In all the glory of the throne This golden haughty lassie like a breeze Her snubbing surely does not please Such arrogance which I can not trade Her bays are sear, my former laurels fade Scorn not the poet's sacred name Who racks his brain for love, not for fame. If inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes this music for a muse Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize a lass So Well the subject suits his mind He brays, the laureate of the long eared kind
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies Behold this ballad monkee poet rise This dull disciple of the school The mild apostate from poetic rule That simple dreamer, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favorite May Thus when he chants of a lass and her coy An idiot poem by an idiot boy That all who view this lad in such his glory Conceive this bard the hero of the story O dreamer poet cease thy varied song A bard may chant too often and too long As though art strong in verse, in mercy spare Because it's more than we can bear If thou, in spite of all the world can say Wilt verseward plod thy weary way If thou in speech and writing most uncivil Wilt try to make us all meek women shrivel The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue It is so mocking, so uncalled for too On such exalted level but not so true You wonder and you ponder Why be yourself and not another And love, O brother Don't you have a mother Now forginhg scrolls, now foremost in the fight Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight And thinkst thou my poet friend, by vain conceit perchance That we would care for such a stale romance God help thee if its due You and all thy readers too
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