As men for pastime may direct their wit As they see fit And thus turn tailor or green-groceryman For their life's span— As men turn tailor for their life's pastime, I turn my hand to rhyme.
Poets be damn'd! if by that word be meant Lean, shaggy devils who will pay no rent, Belaboring the world because it still Cares no two hoots in hell For any dream That they may deem Fit subject for a canticle— Lean, shiftless devils who have never yet Earned silver with a decent sweat, Yet deafen heaven with astounding cries, Storming for pennies which the world denies.
Not mine to spin long garments of regret In rhymes that fret, And, when the night's too long, Whimper a whining song Not mine to draw aside With sullen songs of pride Because I dream the world has done me wrong.
As men turn tailor for their life's pastime, I turn my hand to rhyme. And whether the world cares Or not, for my small wares Makes very trifling difference to me. With delicate, deft stitches I fashion little breeches For casual customers of my fantasy.
JOHN MCCLURE.