O Tavern of the Golden Snail!




There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider.
I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet,
but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses.
Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. Humbly and afar I follow
in the footsteps of Praed and Lampson, of Field and Riley, hoping that in time
my Muse may bring me bread and butter. So far, however, it has been
all kicks and no coppers. And to-night I am at the end of my tether.
I wish I knew where to-morrow's breakfast was coming from.
Well, since rhyming's been my ruin, let me rhyme to the bitter end.




It Is Later Than You Think



Lone amid the cafe's cheer,
Sad of heart am I to-night;
Dolefully I drink my beer,
But no single line I write.
There's the wretched rent to pay,
Yet I glower at pen and ink:
Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,
~It is later than you think!~