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Adam Lindsay Gordon - Unpublished Poem I
Work rating: Low

JONES plays the deuce with his grammar,
Knocks time and tense into tin-tacks ;
Brown, the big Visigoth, wielding blunt hammer,
Mauls right and left the Queen`s syntax.

I may be only a rhymer
(Where the fire fails let the ice lie)
Brown, come and lend me a rhyme - ‘Oh, Jemimer !’
Thank you, Brown ; that will do nicely.

Brown had us down we outlive it
Possibly Brown may be under
Some day. We neither take quarter nor give it ;
Brown finds it warm what `s the wonder ?

You storm Parnassus and Helicon,
Climb you the hill overcome it,
Top it. Why, then you can sit like a pelican
Sticking your beak in the summit.
 
 Then you will not be contented !
Many things here are worth winning ;
Nothing once won is worth prizing. Who scented
Fame first ? Who had the last inning ?

Brown shakes his head : ‘This is temper :
Mere spleen for loss of the last trick.`
Juvenile Mark mutters sagely (sic semper),
‘Great is the juice that is gastric.’

Yes, I confess, Aristophanes
Yesterday puzzled me sadly ;
Sybil last Tuesday took all the hair off her knees
Hushing that paling so madly.

Courage! I’d sold little Sybil ;
Certes ! yon Greek was a pagan ;
I shall get over my grief ; I shall scribble
Do some more discount with Fagan.

I with these verse freaks I care for,
You with those flights as a poet,
Maybe some day we shall both know the wherefore ;
Maybe we never shall know it.
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