The Mystic
An 'Ode to the Moon' did he indite
With his two-and-half soul-power.
('Twas the child of a starlit summer night,
Begot by a gloomy hour.)
And he vowed it was a work immense,
And he quoted it a lot,
And be published it at his own expense;
But the cold, hard world said - 'Rot!'
And he wrote him ringing verse of horse,
And the stockman, and his pipe,
And the brooding bushland; but, of course,
The world just murmured - 'Tripe!'
So he sat him down for another fling,
And his time-exposure mind
Evolved a topical sort of thing,
Of a gay and hum'rous kind.
And he looked to see the world go wild,
And laugh until it cried;
But the verse was poor and the humor mild,
And - 'Bosh!' the tired world sighed.
Then he oiled his weird, ball-bearing mind,
In a dull, despairing mood,
And he wrote a thing of a cryptic kind,
Which nobody understood.
'Twas an ode to the 'Umph' and the 'Thingmebob,'
With a lilt and a right good ring,
And hints of a smirk, a snarl, a sob,
And a murky murmuring.
Nay, nobody understood a word,
Nor strove to understand;
But few dared say it was absurd,
So most agreed 'twas 'Grand!'
Then be let his hair grow lank and long,
And an air intense he got,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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