BOOKWORM BALLADS
A LITERARY FEAST
My Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.
I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.
For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw
Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.
“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.
They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—
“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—
“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.