It's true: I only rarely wish to crow,
But if you're reading this, then you must wish
To know what I'll confess to. And, then, so
I'll tell you that I do not like to fish.
Not enough? Well, I'm rather fond of verse,
So long as it obey the rules set down
In those times when a bard's constructed curse
Had power to shame the head that wore the crown.
No chance of that. No crowns, no shame, no rhyme,
No words to change a heart, much less a mind,
Though no less need for such in this our time:
Or should we shrivel and be too much kind?
Better to atone for words sincerely meant
Than to force straight our crooked souls' true bent.