I lay aside my lagging pen
And get to thinking on my neighbors;
For, oh, around my garret den
There’s woe and poverty a-plenty,
And life’s so interesting when
A lad is only two-and-twenty.
Now, there’s that artist gaunt and wan,
A little card his door adorning;
It reads: ‘Je ne suis pour personne’,
A very frank and fitting warning.
I fear he’s in a sorry plight;
He starves, I think, too proud to borrow,
I hear him moaning every night:
Maybe they’ll find him dead to-morrow.

Similar Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *