Classic Poem

Three days for an answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated,
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
Poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
Of thy dimension's fit for prose,
But everyone that knows Dan, knows
Thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Ramines;
Thy fame, thy genius now declines,
Proud boaster.

I hear with some concern you roar,
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door
And posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I'm grieved to hear your banishment,
But pleased to find you do relent
And cry on.

I mauled you when you looked so bluff,
But now I'll secret keep your stuff;
For know, prostration is enough