His dainty verses might be seen.
He'd take a piece of paper—blank,
With nothing writ upon it—
And soon a triolet 'twould be
A ballade, or a sonnet.
Pantoums,—in fact, whate'er you please,
This poet wrote, with greatest ease.
By dozens he'd turn poems out,
To Editors he'd bring 'em,
Till, quite a household word became