Who struts with ludicrous pretension.
I know not—only this I know,
They're getting overstrained, my ditties,
This kind of poem ought to flow
Less like a solemn "Nunc Dimittis."
'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre,
And jaunty seems this yearling baby;
But, as both year and song expire
They're sadder, each, and wiser, maybe.