Poetry Archives

My Muse is simple,—yet it’s nice
To think you don’t need to think twice
                    On words I write.
I reckon I’ve a common touch
And if you say I cuss too much
                    I answer: ‘Quite!’

I envy not the poet’s lot;
He has something I haven’t got,
                    Alas, I know.
But I have something maybe he
Would envy just a mite in me,—
                    I’m rather low.

For I am cast of common clay,
And from a ditch I fought my way,
                    And that is why
The while the poet scans the skies,
My gaze is grimly gutterwise,
                    Earthy am I.

And yet I have a gift, perhaps
Denied to proud poetic chaps
                    Who scoff at me;
I know the hearts of humble folk;
I too have bowed beneath the yoke:
So let my verse for them evoke
                    Your sympathy.