Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer-s copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;
-The ideas are good,- he muttered, -but the rhythm seems to halt.-

So I straighten-d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen,
And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again.
-You-ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,- he said,
As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head.

So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time),
And I burnt the -midnight taper- while I straightened up the rhyme.
-It is better now,- he muttered, -you go on and you-ll succeed,
-It has got a ring about it-the ideas are what you need.-

So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence),
And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense,
And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more-
It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before.

Now the people say I-d never put such horrors into print
If I wasn-t too conceited to accept a friendly hint,
And my dearest friends are certain that I-d profit in the end
If I-d always show my copy to a literary friend.