"Oh, I'm not writing much poetry now," answered John Powell, otherwise known as Songbird, because of his efforts at composing verses. "I've got too much to do studying."
"Why don't you write a poem to the professors? Maybe they'd excuse you from recitations for it," and Tom smiled broadly.
"I—er—I did write one little poem about the lessons," answered the would-be poet. "It went like this:
"The student sat in his room in a chair
With a look on his face of keen despair;
Outside his chums were playing ball
And oft to him they sent a call.
He wanted to play with all his heart,
But from his books he could not part."
"Grand! Immense! You've struck the clothespin on the head the first clip!" cried Tom. "Any more of the same brand?"
"Well—er—I started the second verse, but I didn't get it finished. It went like this:
"He had a lesson hard to learn,
It made his heart with anguish burn;
He wanted to throw those books away
And rush outside and run and play
And so—and so—and so———"
And so he kept on grinding there,
Gnashing his teeth and pulling his hair,"
finished Tom. "I know, for I've been there. Really, Songbird, that's a dandy poem. You ought to have it framed and hung up in the gym."
"Do you really think so?" and the would-be poet looked pleased.