A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.
A richly pictured set of Avon’s bard
Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;
But none brought out that cloying sense of glee
That came from that first book by Mr. Me.
And so I beg you join me in the toast
To him that I confess I love the most.
He does not always do his level best,
But no one lives who can survive that test.
His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,