Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh!
I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot!
Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.
We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine canons of the future!
We live for ever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer and babble—die!
Serve them right.
What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?
Start not! ’Tis no end man of a minstrel show who perpends this query;
’Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald;
No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram or other guess-work.