Written about that in the Post,
When lo, upon the lawn a host
Of Poets, sprung upon my sight
Each eager for a Poem to write!
To a less placid bard you'd be
A flat domestic tragedy,—
Bird—grackle—nay, I'd scarcely call
You bird—a mere egg you, that's all—
Only a bad egg has the nerve
To poach (a pun!) on my preserve!