But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,

    Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,

    In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

    I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,

    Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow,

    All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

    But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,

    To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard,

    Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

    I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned,

    "Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;

    Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

    How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!

    How he'll wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse;

    Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

    Don't I know how he will pose it; patronize our larger time;

    "Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"

    Just let me have half an hour with the nincompoop sublime!

    I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;

    When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear,

 Prev. P 86/201 next