Song of Myself

I was a Poet!
    But I did not know it,
    Neither did my Mother,
    Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
    The Rich were not aware of it;
    The Poor took no care of it.
    The Reverend Mr. Drewitt
    Never knew it.
    The High did not suspect it;
  The Low could not detect it.
  Aunt Sue
  Said it was obviously untrue.
  Uncle Ned
  Said I was off my head:
  (This from a Colonial
  Was really a good testimonial.)
  Still everybody seemed to think
  That genius owes a good deal to drink.
  So that is how
  I am not a poet now,
  And why
  My inspiration has run dry.
  It is no sort of use
  To cultivate the Muse
  If vulgar people
  Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.
  I am merely apologizing
  For the lack of the surprising
  In what I write
  To-night.
  I am quite well-meaning,
  But a lot of things are always intervening
  Between
  What I mean
  And what it is said
  I had in my head.
  It is all very puzzling.
  Uncle Ned
  Says Poets need muzzling.
  He might
  Be right.
Good-night!