Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine, And I showed the printer’ s copy to a critic friend of mine, First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault; ‘ The ideas are good,’ he muttered,‘ but the rhythm seems to halt.’
So I straighten’ d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen, And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again. ‘ You’ ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,’ he said, As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head.
So I worked as he suggested ( I believe in taking time ), And I burnt the‘ midnight taper’ while I straightened up the rhyme. ‘ It is better now,’ he muttered,‘ you go on and you’ ll succeed, It has got a ring about it — the ideas are what you need.’
So I worked for hours upon it ( I go on when I commence ), And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense, And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more — It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before.
Now the people say I’ d never put such horrors into print If I wasn’ t too conceited to accept a friendly hint, And my dearest friends are certain that I’ d profit in the end If I’ d always show my copy to a literary friend.
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