Classic Poem

If the weather's wet and weary,
And the midnight finds me dreary,
As was frequently the case with Mr. Poe,
Do I meditate on Aidens
And on long-lost radiant maidens,
Or imagine I am talking to a crow?
Nay, the vision more depressing
My prophetic soul possessing
Is " a sea of upturned faces " in the air;
For I nervously conjecture
I shall some day do a lecture,
And that " sea of faces " gives me mal de mer .

Yes, I'm certain I shall do it,
And as certain I shall rue it:
I shall be, in the vernacular, a " shine " ;
For the bald, unvarnished fact is
That I haven't any practice,
Nor the slightest bit of talent in that line.
I shall hesitate and stammer,
And my heart will halt or hammer,
And the words will run together on the page,
Till I'd give my final dollar
Could I sink into my collar,
Or vanish like Mephisto through the stage.

So I live in mortal terror
Of that day of certain error
When I yield myself to looking like a gawk,
When some culture club invites me,
And the secretary writes me
That they'd " love to have me make a little talk. "
I have many friends who work it
On the bowl-and-pitcher circuit,
Who attain Chautauquan honors and renown;
But the notion makes me queasy,
And although I know it's easy,
I shall simply gasp, " I thank you " — and sit down!