One day, when I was young, I read
About a poet, long since dead,
Who fell asleep, as poets do
In writingand make others too.
But herein lies the story’ s gist,
How a gay queen came up and kist
The sleeper.
‘ Capital!’ thought I.
‘ A like good fortune let me try.’
Many the things we poets feign.
I feign’ d to sleep, but tried in vain.
I tost and turn’ d from side to side,
With open mouth and nostrils wide.
At last there came a pretty maid,
And gazed; then to myself I said,
‘ Now for it!’ She, instead of kiss,
Cried, ‘ What a lazy lout is this!’