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In Other Words
Horace Greeley wrote a fist
That a comp. could never read;
Byron—yes, if you insist,
He could write, I will concede—
But his private history
Was a riot and a panic—
Inexcusable by me,
Stern, unbending, Puritanic.
That a comp. could never read;
Byron—yes, if you insist,
He could write, I will concede—
But his private history
Was a riot and a panic—
Inexcusable by me,
Stern, unbending, Puritanic.
Would I sensed a Thornless Rose!
Would I heard a Riftless Lute!
Would, despite that lady’s nose,
I could say ‘‘But she’s a beaut.”
Would that I might ever see
But the True, the Fair, the Youthful!
Would—oh, would that I might be
Optimistic—and untruthful!
Would I heard a Riftless Lute!
Would, despite that lady’s nose,
I could say ‘‘But she’s a beaut.”
Would that I might ever see
But the True, the Fair, the Youthful!
Would—oh, would that I might be
Optimistic—and untruthful!
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