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Robert W Service - Rhyme-SmithRobert W Service - Rhyme-Smith
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Oh, I was born a lyric babe (That last word is a bore - It`s only rhyme is astrolabe," Whose meaning I ignore.) From cradlehood I lisped in numbers, Made jingles even in my slumbers. Said Ma: "He`ll be a bard, I know it." Said Pa: "let`s hoe he will outgrow it." Alas! I never did and so A dreamer and a drone was I, Who persevered in want and woe His misery to versify. Yea, I was doomed to be a failure (Old Browning rhymes that last with "pale lure"): And even starving in the gutter, My macaronics I would utter. Then in a poor, cheap book I crammed, And to the public maw I tossed My bitter Dirges of the Damned, My Lyrics of the Lost. "Let carping critic flay and flout My Ditties of the Down and Out - "There now," said I, "I`ve done with verse, My love, my weakness and my curse." Then lo! (As I would fain believe, Before they crown, the fates would shame us) I went to sleep one bitter eve, And woke to find that I was famous. . . . And so the sunny sequels were a Gay villa on the Riviera, A bank account, a limousine, a Life patterned dolce e divina. Oh, yes, my lyric flight is flighty; My muse is much more mite than mighty: But poetry has been my friend, And rhyming`s saved me in the end.
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