Song of Myself

 I was a Poet! 
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.

The Rich were not aware of it;
The Poor took no care of it.

The Reverend Mr.
 Drewitt
Never knew it.

The High did not suspect it;
The Low could not detect it.

Aunt Sue
Said it was obviously untrue.

Uncle Ned
Said I was off my head:
(This from a Colonial
Was really a good testimonial.
)
Still everybody seemed to think
That genius owes a good deal to drink.

So that is how
I am not a poet now,
And why
My inspiration has run dry.

It is no sort of use
To cultivate the Muse
If vulgar people
Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.

I am merely apologizing
For the lack of the surprising
In what I write
To-night.

I am quite well-meaning,
But a lot of things are always intervening
Between
What I mean
And what it is said
I had in my head.

It is all very puzzling.

Uncle Ned
Says Poets need muzzling.

He might
Be right.

Good-night!

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