Classic Poem

When poets sing of lovers' woes,
And blighted lives and throbs and throes
And yearnings — goodness only knows
It's all a pose.

I am a poet too, you know,
I too was young once long ago,
And wrote such stuff myself, and so
I ought to know.

I too found refuge from Despair
In sonnets to Amanda's fair
White brow or Nell's complexion rare
Or Titian hair —

Which, when she scorned, did I resign
To flames, and go into decline?
Not much! When sonnets fetched per line
Enough to dine.

So, reader, when you read in print
A poet's woe — beware and stint
Your tears — and take this gentle hint
It is his mint.

When Julia's " fair as flowery mead , "
Or when she " makes his heart-strings bleed , "
Know then she's furnishing his feed
Or fragrant weed —

And even as you read — who knows?
Like cannibal that eats his foes,
He dines off Julia's " heart that froze , "
Or " cheek of Rose . "