Black Beetles in Amber - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 54

MASTER OF THREE ARTS

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 harpAnd 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 shownA high regard for human life because I have such trouble to support my own.And you—well, you'll find trouble soon in blowingYour 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!"