Pavement Poet

 God's truth! these be the bitter times.

In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes,
And hold my battered hat for dimes.


And then a copper collars me,
Barking: "It's begging that you be;
Come on, dad; you're in custody.
"

And then the Beak looks down and says:
"Sheer doggerel I deem your lays:
I send you down for seven days.
"

So for the week I won't disturb
The peace by singing at the curb.

I don't mind that, but oh it's hell
To have my verse called doggerel.

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