For the persifleurs to fill—

There are plums and perks

For the bloke who works

With a tireless, lilting quill—

There are “values,” set in the measured line,

And “jim” in the tuneful scrawl,

Where the ore falls thick

To the light pen-prick,

And the sky is a hanging-wall.

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There are no high backs in the rhymer’s stope,