Classic Poem

Somewhat in the Calverley manner

Janet, as the month of Janus
(As I term it) comes to close,
Seek I now the verse incanous
As a substitute for prose.
For, though you may find it tedium,
And may grudge the treasured time,
I prefer the metric medium,
And I choose the chains of rhyme.

These, my Janet, are the days I
Rise without a hint of haste;
Take the frigid plunge with quasi
Fear and tremulous distaste;
These the days when I would rather
Lie the day in bed than lave;
When I whip the mollient lather
For the matutinal shave.

These the days I do not trek fast
From my far too costly flat;
When I dawdle with my breakfast,
Speaking kindly to the cat;
When, replete with melting pity,
For the master of my fate,
I contrive to reach the city
Irremediably late —

When, a zealous lyric smiter,
I essay to sing a song,
And an editorial writer
Talks to me the whole day long;
When I read the final galley-
Proof and pen the ultimate line
With the knowledge that the Valley
Of Contentment isn't mine;

Low morale is mine on these days
Of alternate rain and snow,
Chilly days and melt-and-freeze days —
My morale, I say, is low.
If, my Janet, you can reason
As you read me, it may strike
You that Winter is a season
I enormously dislike.

Janet, yours the fervent query
As to how I feel these days:
Winter finds me overweary,
Void of song and reft of phrase.
Weary of this piffling planet,
Of this ever-whirling wheel,
That, I've tried to tell you, Janet,
Is about the way I feel.

Somewhat in the Calverley manner

Janet, as the month of Janus
(As I term it) comes to close,
Seek I now the verse incanous
As a substitute for prose.
For, though you may find it tedium,
And may grudge the treasured time,
I prefer the metric medium,
And I choose the chains of rhyme.

These, my Janet, are the days I
Rise without a hint of haste;
Take the frigid plunge with quasi
Fear and tremulous distaste;
These the days when I would rather
Lie the day in bed than lave;
When I whip the mollient lather
For the matutinal shave.

These the days I do not trek fast
From my far too costly flat;
When I dawdle with my breakfast,
Speaking kindly to the cat;
When, replete with melting pity,
For the master of my fate,
I contrive to reach the city
Irremediably late —

When, a zealous lyric smiter,
I essay to sing a song,
And an editorial writer
Talks to me the whole day long;
When I read the final galley-
Proof and pen the ultimate line
With the knowledge that the Valley
Of Contentment isn't mine;

Low morale is mine on these days
Of alternate rain and snow,
Chilly days and melt-and-freeze days —
My morale, I say, is low.
If, my Janet, you can reason
As you read me, it may strike
You that Winter is a season
I enormously dislike.

Janet, yours the fervent query
As to how I feel these days:
Winter finds me overweary,
Void of song and reft of phrase.
Weary of this piffling planet,
Of this ever-whirling wheel,
That, I've tried to tell you, Janet,
Is about the way I feel.