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Rhyme-Smith

 Oh, I was born a lyric babe
(That last word is a bore -
It's only rhyme is astrolabe,"
Whose meaning I ignore.
) From cradlehood I lisped in numbers, Made jingles even in my slumbers.
Said Ma: "He'll be a bard, I know it.
" Said Pa: "let's hoe he will outgrow it.
" Alas! I never did and so A dreamer and a drone was I, Who persevered in want and woe His misery to versify.
Yea, I was doomed to be a failure (Old Browning rhymes that last with "pale lure"): And even starving in the gutter, My macaronics I would utter.
Then in a poor, cheap book I crammed, And to the public maw I tossed My bitter Dirges of the Damned, My Lyrics of the Lost.
"Let carping critic flay and flout My Ditties of the Down and Out - "There now," said I, "I've done with verse, My love, my weakness and my curse.
" Then lo! (As I would fain believe, Before they crown, the fates would shame us) I went to sleep one bitter eve, And woke to find that I was famous.
.
.
.
And so the sunny sequels were a Gay villa on the Riviera, A bank account, a limousine, a Life patterned dolce e divina.
Oh, yes, my lyric flight is flighty; My muse is much more mite than mighty: But poetry has been my friend, And rhyming's saved me in the end.

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