For what would they be if it wasn’t for you,
Who seem made to carve poets, by slicing away
The parts they need most when upward they stray,
For what, my dear sir, could one do without wings
To carry aloft every lay that he sings.
“There are those, or have been, who need none at all,
For their writings are far too ethereal to fall,
They soar of themselves to the regions on high,
In musical numbers that never can die.
But then there are those, dearest sir, who in song