Is It Really Any Good?

by Cy Warman

IS IT REALLY ANY GOOD?

By CY WARMAN

You're a critic in your attic up above the dust and din,
⁠On an essay you're in duty bound to do;
When your sanctum opens softly and a sonneteer comes in,
⁠Who was never any good, to you.
But the poet smiles serenely while you're stifling a moan,
For he wants your honest judgment on an effort of his own;
When you tell him that it's rotten and the sonneteer is gone—
⁠Is it really any good, to you?
⁠Were you ever any good, to him, William?
⁠Was he ever any good to you?
⁠Could you help him if you would,
⁠Would you scalp him if you could—
⁠Is he really any good, to you?

You're a Beauty, by the Bard and by the Belted Hero wooed,
⁠Doing nothing, for you've nothing else to do.
Or, perhaps, you're pouring Pink Tea for a pink-a-doodle-dude
⁠Who was never any good, to you.
When you listen to his lyric of the diamond in the skies.
With a glimmer that is dimmer than the shimmer of your eyes;
When he tells you where his treasure lies, and other little lies—
⁠Is he really any good, to you?
⁠Was he ever any good, to you, girlie?
⁠He was never any good, to you.
⁠Would you lose him if you could,
⁠Could you lose him if you would,
⁠Is he really any good, to you?

You're a Merger, with a hundred million dollars in the bank,
⁠Up and doing till there's no one left to do.
When your ship is on the ocean, and the oil is in the tank,
⁠Is it really any good, to you?
When you're owning all that's ownable between the earth and sky,
Every four-and-twenty hours will another day go by;
But you couldn't eat a carrot lest you'd double up and die—
⁠Is it really any good, to you?
⁠It was never any good, to me, Rocky;
⁠Was it ever any good, to you?
⁠Could you stop it if you would,
⁠Would you stop it if you could—
⁠Is it really any good, to you?

You're a soldier. There's a Sultan on a lonely little isle.
⁠Doing nothing, for there's nothing else to do.
When you hail him and the Heathen comes to greet you with a smile—
⁠Is it really any good, to you?
You approach him with your Bible and your bottle and your gun,
If he doesn't hike he's High-balled and you'll shoot him if he run;
When a hundred weedless widows stand aweeping in the sun—
⁠Are they really any good, to you?
⁠Were you ever any good, to him, Johnny?
⁠Was he ever any good, to you?
⁠You could win him if he would,
⁠You would skin him if you could,—
⁠For he isn't any good, to you.