Sympathy

 My Muse is simple,--yet it's nice
To think you don't need to think twice
 On words I write.
I reckon I've a common touch
And if you say I cuss too much
 I answer: 'Quite!'

I envy not the poet's lot;
He has something I haven't got,
 Alas, I know.
But I have something maybe he
Would envy just a mite in me,--
 I'm rather low.

For I am cast of common clay,
And from a ditch I fought my way,
 And that is why
The while the poet scans the skies,
My gaze is grimly gutterwise,
 Earthy am I.

And yet I have a gift, perhaps
Denied to proud poetic chaps
 Who scoff at me;
I know the hearts of humble folk;
I too have bowed beneath the yoke:
So let my verse for them evoke
 Your sympathy.

Form: Lyric

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