Said A.: “These little songs display
No lyric gift, but still a ray,
A promise. They will do no harm.”
’Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.: “The author may, in time,
Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;
His efforts now are scarcely verse.”
This, certainly, could not be worse.
Sorely discomfited, our bard
Worked for another ten years—hard.