Classic Poem

A FELLOW last week scanned me this way and that,
As though I were a slave or a prize-fighter fat
That he wanted to purchase, and when with his eye
And finger he'd shown me to each passer-by,
He ventured at last to come nearer a bit,
And said: " Tell me, pray, are you Martial the wit,
With whose funny verses all men are acquainted,
Who are not with Philistine boorishness tainted."
I bowed and replied with my most civil leer —
" The person you mention you see standing here."
" Why then," quoth the stranger, " that shocking bad gown?"
" I'm a shocking bad poet," said I, " that I own."
For a bard one such contretemps surely's enough.
So send me, dear friend, a new gown of good stuff.