God’s truth! these be the bitter times.
In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes,
And hold my battered hat for dimes.
And then a copper collars me,
Barking: “It’s begging that you be;
Come on, dad; you’re in custody.”
And then the Beak looks down and says:
“Sheer doggerel I deem your lays:
I send you down for seven days.”
So for the week I won’t disturb
The peace by singing at the curb.
I don’t mind that, but oh it’s hell
To have my verse called doggerel.
