Excuse me, Sir, I pray—I can’t yet speak,
I’m crying now and have been all the week;
Toos’ not alone this morning suit good Masters,
I’ve that within for which there are no p’asters!
Plea, would you know the why I’m crying?
‘The Cosmic Muse‘ long sick is now a-dying!
And if she’s gone, ‘en my tears will never stop;
For as a play’r, I can’t squeeze out one drop;
I’m brave and untouched, but that’s nothing,
I’d rather lose my bread, and a hot tea;
Than—I lose my head; T’ sweet co’en is laid upon ‘he bier.
Shelter and I shall be chief-moun’rs-here!
To her a mawkish-drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentiments, will succeed.
Poor Neo and I are dead to all intents;
We could as s”n speak Latin as Sentiments.
Both nervous grown, to keep our Spirits up,
We now and then, take down a heaty cup.
What shall we do?, If Art forsake us!
They’ll turn us out, ‘d no one el’ ‘ll take us.
But why can’t I be moral?, well, ‘lemme’ try,
My heart thus pre’ing f’ward fixed my face ‘d eye.
With a sententious look that noth’ means,
Faces are blocks in-sentimental-scenes.
Pleasure seems sweet, but pr’ves a glass of Bitters;
Hence, I begin again, all is not Gold that glitters.
When ign’rance jabs in, folly is at hand,
Learn’ is far better than house and land.
Let not your potent trip for, who tri’s may stumble;
And potent is not virtue if she tumble.
Read the second article in my next blog; 🔗 https://loomtoweralph.art.blog/?p=131
LTA Work Of Art 