Page:The eighth sin (IA eighthsin00morlrich).pdf/21



When the poet's pot has bubbled and boiled
 * And still yields indigestible fare,

When the delicate morsel is wholly spoiled
 * And such is your rage that you do not care—
 * Then is the time to be debonair

And full of a pumiced and lavendered pride,
 * Get out your finest clothes to wear

And see that your shoes are neatly tied!

Keats is dead and has left no heir,
 * But his words are balm to the sorely tried:

If you want to write verses rich and rare
 * See that your shoes are neatly tied!