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Poem	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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