I have to work so very hard.
So hard my lot, so tossed about,
My muse is fairly tuckered out.
My muse aforesaid, once hath flown,
But now her back is broke, and breast;
And yet she fain would crumple down
On “Gimlet” pages she would rest;
And sing plain words as there she’s sot
Haply they’ll rhyme, and haply not
I spake plain words in former days,