"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;
Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!"
How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!
How he'll wish his vogue were greater,—plume himself it is no worse;
Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!
Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:
"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"
Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!
I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;
When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear: