Classic Poem

Come, buy my lays, and read them if you list;
My pensibe public, if you list not, buy.
Come, for you know me. I am be who sang
Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed
Of Widdicomb the wild and wondrous song.
Come, listen to my lays, and yon shall hear
How Wordsworth, battling for the Laureate's wreath,
Bore to the dust the terrible fitzball;
How H. P. Willis for his country's good,
In complete steel, all bowie-knibed at point,
Cook lodgings in the Snapping Curtle's womb.
Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear
The mingled music of all modern bards
Floating aloft in such peculiar strains,
As strike themselves with envy and amaze;
For you “bright-harped” Cennyson shall sing;
Macaulay chant a more than Roman lay;
And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst,
Unseen amidst a metaphysit fog,
Bowl melancholy homage to the moon:
For you once more Montgomery shall rabe
In all his rapt rapidity of rhyme;
Hankeened Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note,
And our young England's penny frumpet blow.