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It’s Really Disheartening
When Homer smote his you-know-what
To sing about M. J. Ulysses,
Old Constant Reader said ’twas not
The thing to read to youths and misses.
And Old Subscriber sent a note
Whose words Hellenic I’ve forgotten—
Translated, this is what he wrote:
“Please can this Homer simp; he’s rotten.”
To sing about M. J. Ulysses,
Old Constant Reader said ’twas not
The thing to read to youths and misses.
And Old Subscriber sent a note
Whose words Hellenic I’ve forgotten—
Translated, this is what he wrote:
“Please can this Homer simp; he’s rotten.”
When Q. Horatius penned a pome
And put it in the Sabine Journal,
Pro Bono Publico, of Rome,
Wrote in: “This column is infernal.
If that is humorous, good night!
Don’t tell me that you pay him money.
Whoever said this boob could write?
Whoever told him he was funny?”
And put it in the Sabine Journal,
Pro Bono Publico, of Rome,
Wrote in: “This column is infernal.
If that is humorous, good night!
Don’t tell me that you pay him money.
Whoever said this boob could write?
Whoever told him he was funny?”
And when a column, all in rhyme,
In solid agate, signed ‘‘John Milton,”
Appeared, some cleped him “Quince” and “Lime,”
And said his stuff was very Stilton.
When Avon’s bard put on a play
Those were who said: “He can’t deliver,
This William Shaxpur! Fade away!
Good sooth, the fellow is a flivver!”
In solid agate, signed ‘‘John Milton,”
Appeared, some cleped him “Quince” and “Lime,”
And said his stuff was very Stilton.
When Avon’s bard put on a play
Those were who said: “He can’t deliver,
This William Shaxpur! Fade away!
Good sooth, the fellow is a flivver!”
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