I don't, in tones more picturesque
Than journalistic, slam my desk,
And in a fit
Of frenzy quit
My job.

When, as I may have said before,
Your image I can not ignore,
I do not tear
My thinning hair
Nor cuss;

I leave such sentimental show
To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe
I merely spill
Some ink, Myrtil-
La, thus.



Myrtilla's Third Degree

(With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proctor's heirs,
administrators and assigns.)


Before I trust my Fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine--
(This is an easy parody,
Without a change of line.)