Still prose sounds so dull when your mind lights on Cobb
And the writer of verse has some chance with the job;
For if ever a chap breathed forth sunlight and wit
And could write and then talk as if they were nit
And wooed you, and held you and made you first gulp
And tighten the throat and made you like pulp
Just to turn you to laughter until your sides ache,—
It’s Cobb: bless his heart and his wit: and I ask him to take
This rotten attempt to bid him God-speed
In taking the world and his wife in those paths