As is the way with all of us who let
Our fancies caper. Hadst I thought whilst yet
Unknown, I’dst be a poet, quite a few
Endearin’ words with which I soughtst to woo
More girls than one I’dst not have wrote, you bet!
If Susan Sanderson shouldst find I sent
The valentine I saidst I wrote for her
To Jane Jones, too, the thirty cents I’ve spent
For soda water’s wasted, I’dst infer:
Why must we poets do things we’ll repent?