Black Beetles in Amber

Your various talents, Goldenson, command

Respect: you are a poet and can draw.

It is a pity that your gifted hand

Should ever have been raised against the law.

If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture,

You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.

About your poetry I'm not so sure:

'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad,

Whose hardy writers have not to endure

The hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad:

Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet)

Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.

Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too—

Taught by the muses how to smite the harp

And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you

And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp.

But let me say, with no desire to taunt you,

I never murder even the girls I want to.

I hold it one of the poetic laws

To sing of life, not take. I've ever shown

A high regard for human life because

I have such trouble to support my own.

And you—well, you'll find trouble soon in blowing

Your private coal to keep it red and glowing.

I fancy now I see you at the Gate

Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly,

You cry: "Good sir, take pity on my state—

Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!"

And Peter says: "O, that's all right—but, mister,

You scribbled rhymes. In Hell I'll make you

blister!"