My prose is for others, My songs for myself. The slow dust that smothers My poems on the shelf Inflicts on my haughty And insolent nerves The treatment such naughty Exposure deserves. My prose is decorous, Or strips other men, Discretely sonorous On things that have been. My verse tears he curtain From shuddering me, Pale, haggard, uncertain, As souls should not be. My prose is large, sunny, And pleasant to touch; It brings me some money, Though, damn it, not much. My verse bares my pocket As well as my heart; Yet, love it or mock it, To sing is @3my@1 art. |