The Poet laughed this time. "A triolet to a ton of coal would be a glorious thing now, wouldn't it?" he observed.
"No," said the Idiot. "A triolet could never be a glorious thing under any circumstances; but to the extent that a ton of coal contains a certain amount of grandeur in the service it renders to mankind, I think the form would be ennobled somewhat by the substance. Let's try it and see."
"You do it," said the Poet; "I really don't think I could do the subject justice."
The Idiot got out a pencil and a pad of paper and began.
"I don't think I'll make it a triolet," he said, after biting the end of his pencil for a few moments. "A whole ton is a good deal to cram into a triolet. I'll just make it a plain poem of the go-as-you-please variety instead, eh?"
"In the manner of Whitman, perhaps?" suggested the Poet, dryly.
"Just so," said the Idiot. "In the manner of Whitman; in fact, I think the manner of Whitman is the only manner for the poetic description of a ton of coal."
He began to scribble on the pad.
"I'm going to call this 'Content,'" he said in a few moments. "Contentment strikes me as the main lesson a ton of coal teaches."
He scribbled on, and in four or five minutes he put down his pencil and read the following lines: