The Retort Discourteous

They say we like London—O Hell!—

They tell

Us we shall never sell

Our works (as if we cared).

We’re “high brow” and long-haired

Because we don’t

Cheat and cant.

We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,

Just because their rag-time

Bores us.

These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;

So they chime,

Rhyme

And time,

And Slime,

All praise their virtuous impotence.

I know a woman who is natural

As any simple cannibal;

This is a great misfortune, for her lot

Is to reside with people who are not.