I cannot guess just what the future poet's themes may be;
Reckon they'll be pretty lofty, fer, as anyone can see,
The world of poetry's lookin' up an' poets climbin' higher;
With divine afflatus boostin' them, of course they must aspire.
The poets of the good old times were cruder with the pen;
Their idees weren't the same as ours—these good old-fashioned men—
Bet old Homer never writ, even in his palmiest day,
Such a soul-upliftin' poem as "Hosses Chawin' Hay."
"Hosses" don't know any better out in the Hawkeye State—
Down to Boston now, I reckon, they jest simply masticate.