Great Byron, when he published his Childe book,
In which he sang of all his lovely dears,
Called forth hot condemnation and cold look,
From lesser mortals who were not his peers.
They chided him for telling his affairs.
Because they could not tell their own so well,
They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell.
They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight.
And all because he dared to tell the truth.
Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,—
A full fledged genius with the fire of youth.
They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth;
Because he blended human with divine.
They branded him "the bard of women and of wine."
Of course I soak the booze once in a while.
But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it;
I love the girls, they win me with a smile.
But no one knows, for I won't write about it.
And so the fools may never think to doubt it,
When I declare I am a moral man.
As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan.
Every man has got a hobby,
Every poet has some fault,
Every sweet contains its bitter,
Every fresh thing has its salt.
Every mountain has a valley,
Every valley has a hill,
Every ravine is a river.
Every river is a rill.
