Is my gold nib to touch their garment’s hem.
Say, Byron (for as bard I still prefer thee
To all whose pallid minor stars be-gem
These Gotha nights) would not such task deter thee
From the rhymed octave—sometime known as Whistlecraft—
In which, poor ass, I ply this weekly thistlecraft?
Οίμοι! that I can never be a poet
Modelled on spoon-fed college Adonäises,
Whose metres reek of Porson, Jebb, and Jowett,
Whose very thoughts derive from donnish däises.