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TREES AND OTHER POEMS
TO CERTAIN POETS
NOW is the rhymer's honest trade
A thing for scornful laughter made.
The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain,
These are the burden of our pain.
Because of you did this befall,
You brought this shame upon us all.
You little poets mincing there
With women's hearts and women's hair!
How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be
To hear you lisp of "Poesie"!
A heavy-handed blow, I think,
Would make your veins drip scented ink.
You strut and smirk your little while
So mildly, delicately vile!
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