Classic Poem

Tuck, Demitroia,
Ariadne, and Froyja;
The loveliest quartette
To give a man joy-a! —

But, O my Tuck, go not before me!
A lonely sun is shining o'er me.
Think of your Robin, 'tis no joke, O,
Left in the grasp of demon Poco!

— Believe him not; no sun, nor moon
Afford the faintest light —
But only candles such as made
Of patent composite.

Even as some little doggie
Whom his mistress will not see,
Quasi-squatted by the wayside
One leg lifted; fixed on three.

— My verses run (by rail at least)
Though some may say they hobble
What matter's that? — for well it's known:
Two poets always squabble utrum horum mavis
We're starting for Grenoble accipe —

Tell me where he wanders,
Gentle breezes, pray!
If in peace he saunters (qy, spelling?)
Regular each day. —

— A poet by the wayside went.
He met a monk, a holy man.
" O shrive me, friar", he said and bent
His head. " Confess", the monk began.

" O one of thine I've loved too well.
Too well I've loved that friar so fat.
The muses blew into a shell
Whene'er he laughed, and sweet his chat!"

" No more", the dark Confessor said.
" I know him: one of many, thou!
He when thy heart is won, has fled:
For ages he has done as now.

" There is no hope: thou canst not rest:
Obedient to his wanton whim,
Yea, North and East and South and West,
Forever must thou follow him.

" Young Cupid was he call'd of old;
With Will o'Wisp incorporate: —

" Tuck is he named, a reveler bold
To follow him is ay thy fate.

" He hath thee in a golden mesh
And thee will have forevermore.
He is the Genius of the Flesh,"
— Yet still, my Tuck, I thee adore.

— Pity the sorrows of a poor young man
Who vainly seeks a rhyme

Of rhythm he's not over much
But compensates in time .