A spice of love, a bit of fight, The clink if wedding rings, The villain’s death, and all end right, If I could write a tale to-night.
My pot is on the fire to-night,
Alas, it needs to boil; I gaze with would-be seeress sight, And burn the midnight oil, Alack, again, I cannot write, My pot is on the fire to-night.
A check looms large into my sight,
And here, I scribble rhymes; No editor will heed my plight, I’ve proved that scores of times: Oh, hero, gallant, come bedight, A check looms large into my sight.
I gaze into the fire to-night,
And build my castles there; Great mansions, tall, and all alight, Alas, they turn to air. Then vainly, I for ideas fight, And gaze into the fire to-night.
It is no use, I cannot write,
I’d rather dream than work; Then what’s the use, let’s take to-night For luxury of shirk. Those editors would send it back, I cannot write, ah, well, alack!