Roof that goes over our head,
Thirst so expensive for slaking,
Paper, apparel, and lead—
Why are their prices at breaking?
Yet, though our purses be aching,
Little the traffickers care;
Getting, for chopping and steaking,
All that the traffic will bear.
L'ENVOI
Take thou my verses, I pray, King,
Letting my guerdon be fair.
Even a bard must be making
All that the traffic will bear.
To W. Hohenzollern, on Discontinuing The Conning Tower
William, it was, I think, three years ago—
As I recall, one cool October morning—
(You have The Tribune files; I think they'll show
I gave you warning).
I said, in well-selected words and terse,
In phrases balanced, yet replete with power,
That I should cease to pen the prose and verse
Known as The Tower.
That I should stop this Labyrinth of Light—
Though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted—
Unless you stopped the well-known Schrecklichkeit
Your nation started.
I printed it in type that you could read;
My paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed.
You paid, I judge from what ensued, no heed ...
The war continued.
And though my lines with fortitude were fraught,
Although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing,
You, William, thought—oh, yes, you did—you thought
That I was bluffing.