He scanned my baggage tags: ‘Are you
The man who wrote of Lady Lou?’
When I said ‘yes’ he made a fuss –
Oh, he was most assiduous;
And I was pleased to think that he
Enjoyed my brand of poetry.
He was forever at my call,
So when we got to Montreal
And he had brushed me off, I said:
‘I’m glad my poems you have read.
I feel quite flattered, I confess,
And if you give me your address
I’ll send you (autographed, of course)
One of my little books of verse.’
He smiled – his teeth were white as milk;
He spoke – his voice was soft as silk.
I recognized, depite his skin,
The perfect gentleman within.
Then courteously he made reply:
‘I thank you kindly, Sir, but I
With many other cherished tome
Have all your books of verse at home.
‘When I was quite a little boy
I used to savour them with joy;
And now my daughter, aged three,
Can tell the tale of Sam McGee;
While Tom, my son, that’s only two
Has heard the yarn of Dan McGrew. . . .
Don’t think your stuff I’m not applaudin’ –
My taste is Eliot and Auden.’
So we gravely bade adieu
I felt quite snubbed – and so would you,
And yet I shook him by the hand,
Impressed that he could understand
The works of those two tops I mention,
So far beyond my comprehension –
A humble bard of boys and barmen,
Disdained, alas! by Pullman carmen.