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Robert W Service - My Cross
Work rating: Medium

I wrote a poem to the moon
But no one noticed it;
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
It`s purity and grace forlorn,
It`s beauty tulip-cool…
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.

I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end
And called it Dan McGrew.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away;
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.

`Tis bitter truth, but there you are-
That`s how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You`ll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.

So what`s the use to burn and bleed
And strive for beauty`s sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch…
Like Lady Lou.
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