Classic Poem

The verses of the modern pote,
The things he labels " free, "
Resemble much a little boat
That's rudderless at sea.

The pote rides in his cockleshell,
Not knowing where he's bound,
And, tossed about from swell to swell,
Goes round and round and round.

You see them bobbing everywhere
Upon the lith'ry main,
And no one seems to know, or care,
If they get home again.

Now those who wish may put to sea,
And pitch and toss and roll,
Like Gotham's celebrated Three
Who voyaged in a bowl.

Give me to steer a steady barge,
Through meadows green and cool
That's hauled along a grassy marge
By Pegasus my mule.