A Warning.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 25, 21 December 1907, Page 20

A Warning.

I. He was just a common poet Of the ordinary type, Doomed to write his verse and sow it Wheresoe'er the field was ripe. But one day he wrote some twaddle With a metre like a knell, And the thing rang in his noddle Till his wits began to toddle And his brain was all a-waddle. And they put him in a cell. n. Now lie sits alone and loon-ey In the mad-house by the way, And whene’er the nights are inoon-y He writes poetry, they’ say. But his muse is most erratic, As of course ’twould have to be; For lie’s Hoppy in the attic. Also violently lu nat ic, And a straightjacket emphatic Is his future destiny. 111. Moral is, don't write a jingle With an over-catchy’ rhyme. You might make too many mingle In the mad-house at a time. Maniacs in an asylum Get excited if you rile 'em, And you cannot bake or bile 'em In this addle-pated dime. IV. Just refrain from all the metres That go galloping along, And the jolly one that teters Like a hush-a-bye-low song. Strike a measure sorter mope-y — Sm li a one. we’ll say, as mine; Let her wander, limp and lopey, Serpent-ine-ish-ly and ropey, Till you’ve got your rhythm dopey— Or else quietly resign.

LURANA W. SHELDON.