Classic Poem

I sit me down to make a batch of rhymes;
I've nothing in particular to say;
'Tis just to turn a crank and count the times —
Such poetry is ground out every day.

The papers teem with it, why shouldn't I
Help swell this tone that current poets sing?
'Tis neither soft and sweet, nor grand and high,
And has no meaning — just an empty ring.

I fill my hoppers with the lightest trash,
Not throwing in one grain of thought of passion, —
No bright idea, lest its sudden flash
Should startle — for ideas are out of fashion.

I talk of love, of course, but in such style
That anyone can see there's nothing in it;
I turn off love-sick stanzas while I smile,
And wonder if some fool will think I mean it.

I screech, high-keyed, in wild and mournful tones,
A wail for some one false or long departed:
I rake the past, and over dead, dry bones
Utter a dirge that sounds quite broken-hearted.

Meanwhile, but few are ever taken in
By all this stuff: most people know too well
The spurious tricks of rhyme, its crying sin;
Its make-believe, its hollow, sounding shell.

I tell my " poet's lie " without offense,
For tis a sort of sickly-solemn joke
That none believes in who has common sense;
It takes so little fire to make a smoke.

Long-suffering public, take my grist of chaff —
At your own price — we surely shall not quarrel.
It will not make you weep or laugh;
But then, you know, 'twill help fill up the " barrel. "