The Test

Sometimes a bit of rhyme I see
    In magazine or book
That makes such fond appeal to me
    Its flaws I overlook;
It may  be just a simple lay,
    Yet humanly so pat,
That when I've scanned it twice I say:
    "I wish I'd written that."

But when I read some classic ode
    Of gods and mighty men,
To finish it I have to goad
    My patience now and then.
Although   to thrill to it I try,
    Its organ note goes flat,
And honestly I cannot sigh:
    "I wish I'd written that."

Some poems lift aloft the mind,
    Some whisper to the heart;
Unto the last I'm more inclined,
    Though innocent of art.
Some verses get beneath my skin -
    Like Casey at the Bat,
Or Jim  Bloodso or Gunga Din -
    Why didn't I write that?

These  bards have got the edge on me,
    I've missed the lyric bus;
My rhymes and meters, I agree,
    Are sadly obvious.
My balladeering lays I rue,
    I'm just a copy-cat. . . .
Goldarn that devil, Dan McGrew -
    Oh why did I write that?