Poetry Archives

“It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!”
Max Breuck was maddened now.  “Another jest
Of your befuddled wits.  I know not why
I am to be your butt.  At my request
You’ll choose among you one who’ll answer for
Your most unseasonable mirth.  Good-night
And good-by,—gentlemen.  You’ll hear from me.”
But Franz had caught him at the very door,
“It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight
I am to blame.  Come back, and we’ll talk quietly.